


The Magician

by JayRain



Series: New Magic and Old Gods [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tevinter, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Action. Conscious awareness. Concentrating. Power: the qualities of The Magician tarot card. Dorian Pavus is a prodigy, carefully bred for the perfect bloodline and magical power. Competitive and the ultimate achiever, Dorian is everything Tevinter stands for... which is exactly what he doesn't want to be. (Pre-Inquisition backstory)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eight of Swords

Chapter 1: Eight of Swords

Dorian had been taught from a young age that he was better than everyone else. Now, he wasn’t sure if, like so many others in the Altus echelon, he believed it in full, or if he’d been lied to for as long as he could remember. And now he stood outside the doors of the Vyrantium Circle, the youngest mage to be admitted as a full member in living memory.

  
Not even his father could boast that. At least he would be able to boast about his son. Yet again.

  
“You. Bring the trunks,” Halward Pavus clucked to the retinue of slaves that were to accompany Dorian, his only child, during his stay in Vyrantium. How long it would be, there was little saying, and it made Dorian slightly nervous. He had a reputation to maintain, and the cost for failure was unpleasant. Halward turned to his son. Dorian was as tall as him now, lithe and graceful as a feline. He hadn’t so much been born, as crafted: the perfect distillation of the most attractive and most powerful mages since the age of the Sominari. And here he stood, fifteen and a full member of the Circle of Vyrantium. “You bring great honor upon our house,” he said.

  
Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at the great, dark doors. Magic thrummed from them, from the whole building, woven into every crevice of every stone, magic as old as the Imperium. Which, for all intents and purposes, meant magic as old as time itself. And he was part of it, as much as it was part of him. “I know. You’ve told me once every mile from Qarinus to Vyrantium,” Dorian said without glancing over at his father.

The great doors opened on silent hinges and Dorian and his father stepped into the torch lit hallway. Slaves emerged from the shadows and wordlessly began assisting the Pavus slaves with Dorian’s belongings. Dorian’s heart beat faster, but he kept his expression neutral. Yes, this was real. Yes, he could do this. He’d been made to do this.

“Lord Halward. Young Master Dorian.” The First Enchanter approached, a severe man with sharp features and piercing blue eyes. “We welcome you to Vyrantium and trust your time here will be productive and beneficial to the Imperium.”

Dorian met the man’s eyes, but only for a moment. “Thank you, First Enchanter,” he said, as his mother had made him practice. It seemed so silly, rehearsing four words over and over again, when he could command spirits of the Fade and conjure firestorms as if they were parlor tricks. But again, as the only child and heir of House Pavus, there were obligations, so he’d rolled his eyes and practiced saying the phrase until his mother was as close to happy as she was bound to get.

The First Enchanter led the way down the hall, and as they walked, Dorian a few steps behind the Enchanter and his father, other mages began to show themselves. He recognized some from the Altus class to which his family belonged; he’d seen quite a few of them at various soirees and balls his family had brought him to. He rarely interacted with them though; he was little more than a trophy, polished and preened and shown off. He seemed to scream, “Look at the scion of House Pavus! Behold the glory of years of careful breeding!”

There were Laetans as well, watching him pass with envy clearly emblazoned on their faces. They’d been lucky enough to be born with magic, but not as lucky as Dorian.

He relished the attention, certainly. One did not come from a bloodline like this, or possess talent like his, and not feel pride, or feel deserving of the attention. But he also wanted the presentations and niceties to be over with. He wanted them to stop staring like a bunch of gauche southerners.

They entered the main hall, set as if for a grand celebration. All the warmth Dorian had felt from the attention and admiration drained from him as his father turned to look at him. “We spared no expense,” he said, face beaming. He placed both hands on Dorian’s shoulders and tried to meet his son’s eye, but Dorian was busy looking around and trying to keep his panic at bay. “This is a momentous occasion. The youngest full member of Vyrantium. My son.” His smile threatened to break his face; tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes.

A passing slave offered Dorian wine and he took a glass, a deep, bloody Tevinter red. He downed it more quickly than he ever would have at a soiree and took another as quickly as he could; he ignored his father’s disapproving glance. Fasta vass; if he was old enough to become a full Circle member, he was old enough to drink himself away from all this embarrassment.

And drink he did. He barely remembered the feast when it took two slaves to help him to bed that night, only after he’d vomited several times, and luckily nowhere near where his father would hear or see. When asked by anyone he’d said simply he was overwhelmed by the great honor accorded to him, and he would prove worthy of it. And then he feigned exhaustion from all the excitement and was escorted to his rooms. After a stop off at the privy, of course. If he wasn’t such a talented mage, he’d make an excellent actor. Even the Maker himself would have to admit that Orlesian theatre was lacking.

Dorian woke late the next morning feeling disoriented. He was still fully clothed, though somehow he’d managed to kick his shoes off. He had slept on top of the silk sheets and fine woven blankets, but here in the north there was rarely need for them. His eyes felt like he’d been through a sandstorm, and his mouth tasted… well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it tasted like.

He tried sitting up, but the room was still spinning. A slave had thoughtfully left a bucket on the bedside table, and Dorian availed himself of it. A pitcher of water had been left as well, and he wondered if the slaves of the Circle were accustomed to drunken mages on a regular basis.

After some water and a wash, he felt a bit better, and the room had even stopped spinning. As much. He looked around his room, a bit smaller than his suite at home, but that was to be expected. As a Circle member he was here for study, in the service of the Imperium. His contributions were more valued than his comfort. Still, it was better than those bloody cells southerners shoved their mages into.

There was a knock on the door, and Dorian tried to smooth out his clothes and run a comb through his hair and look at least a bit presentable on his first morning here.

He needn’t have bothered; it was just another slave. A young man, maybe a little older than he was; human, though possibly half elven. The sun shone on his glossy chestnut colored hair, and he had the biggest eyes Dorian had ever seen. They were dark and almost sorrowful in his thin face. Dorian suddenly felt a bit shy and wished he’d taken just a bit more time to put himself together. And then he blushed because his tutors had warned him against this very thing. At home, they could cover it up with bribes and transfers, and yes, even killing if necessary, until Dorian “got it out of his system”. But here, in Vyrantium, he would have to be more careful.

He cleared his throat. The man’s looks were nothing to him, and Dorian had no reason to be ashamed. If anything the slave should be grateful that Dorian had spared more than a moment to appreciate him. “Yes?”  
The slave looked at the floor. “My Lord Dorian. I am Lepidus. I’ve been sent to see to your needs. You missed the morning meal, so one shall be sent to you. I am to inform you of your daily schedule.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Schedule?”

Lepidus dared a glance up at his new young master. “Yes, my lord. New members to the Circle of Vyrantium undergo an orientation process.”

Dorian’s first instinct was to order Lepidus out; that’s what his father usually did when a slave displeased him, or brought unpleasant information. But he paused and took a deep breath. Lepidus had been assigned to him by the First Enchanter. And while Dorian was a magical prodigy, he was new to Vyrantium, and it would not do House Pavus credit to get off to a bad start. He pasted a smile on. “Thank you, Lepidus. I shall need to know where I am expected and when, and how I shall present myself.” He fell easily into the routine he’d had at home; Lepidus was a Circle slave, but he was still a slave in Tevinter, and their jobs did not vary much.  
Lepidus droned on about tests for specializations, meetings and committees, potential apprenticeships; all while he moved effortlessly about Dorian’s quarters as if he’d served Dorian for years rather than minutes. He laid out a set of tailored robes, the robes of a full mage of the Vyrantium Circle, then respectfully turned aside to allow Dorian to dress.

Dorian still struggled with his rumpled clothing, trying to undo his many buckles and buttons, nervously aware of Lepidus standing with his back to him. “Do you require my assistance, my lord?” the slave asked. “I’ve been trained in matters of the chambers.”

This should have made things better, but Dorian felt even more anxious. “No, I can take care of this,” he said. He finally got just enough undone to be able to yank his clothing off in a messy heap and then shrug into his Vyrantium robes. The black silk was soft against his skin, and the deep charcoal brocade of the overcoat made him look much older than fifteen. A few gold threads woven into the brocade caught the late morning sun.

“Allow me, my lord.” Lepidus approached, all business, and began adjusting the belts and buckles of Dorian’s new uniform. As with everything in Tevinter, the fabric itself seemed to have magic woven into it. But rather than feel powerful, Dorian suddenly felt overwhelmed, and maybe even trapped.  
He swallowed and feared he’d be sick again, all over his splendid new robes. He tried to remind himself this was what he was meant for, but he was also only fifteen and in over his head…

“Your father Lord Halward left this for you and wished you to have it.” Lepidus held out a small box to Dorian. It must have been on the desk or vanity and Dorian overlooked it. He opened it up and pulled out a long golden chain with a pendant dangling from it: two golden snakes intertwined, and set with aquamarines, yellow topazes, and one large diamond at the place where they joined.

Dorian stared at it, blinking, then wordlessly handed it to Lepidus, who fastened the chain about Dorian’s neck. “What is it?” the slave asked, then stepped back and hung his head. “If I may be so bold to ask. I apologize for my boldness, my lord.”

Dorian felt a slight pang. Wherever Lepidus had come from, or whoever his last master here had been, they had evidently been unkind to him. The Pavus household kept slaves; what noble house in Tevinter didn’t? But he’d been taught to be decent to them. He’d even accompanied his father to court to see an exceptional slave or two become Liberati.

“Be at ease, Lepidus,” Dorian told the young man. Ye old gods, those eyes were something else. “This is the Pavus family amulet. My birthright,” he said. No pressure, he thought. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then turned and pasted on a smile. “Now. Take me to my first appointment.”

***

The first day was a list of rules; meetings to go to; committees to join; appointments to keep. It was a whirlwind of sitting around listening to old men drone about the glory of the Imperium, and Dorian wasn’t sure if he was tired from the newness of it all, just how boring they all sounded. Lunch was thin slices of cured meat, flatbread, olives, hard cheeses, and oil served with a chilled, watered down wine, and eaten in the middle of meetings. By the time dinner arrived Dorian was reeling from all the information.

It wasn’t just the magic. That he could do. It was easy for him, as natural as breathing. It was the politicking and posturing that this position meant. That was all new.

But the day was not yet done; there was still the formal dinner to get through, which was essentially yet another meeting, only held during a meal. The temptation to drink his way through it was strong, but Dorian knew he would have to face these things sooner rather than later. It was not a comforting thought.

The mages all wore their Circle robes to dinner, so Dorian had no reason to head back to his quarters. He was about to enter what he was certain was a vipers’ pit, young and alone. Last night at least his father had been here; tonight, all he had was the Pavus amulet to speak for him.  
“Good evening. You’re Dorian, aren’t you?”

He turned to the woman who’d materialized next to him. He bowed and flashed a smile as he’d learned to do. “I am. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady…”  
“Cymbeline. Would you be so kind as to escort me to dinner?”

Etiquette demanded that Dorian offer Cymbeline his arm and walk her toward the dining room. She was quite lovely, with black hair that she wore braided and pinned in a crown about her head, and lyrium-blue eyes framed by long lashes. But she just. Kept. Talking. “And my family holds seats within the Magisterium. I’m certain Lord Halward is acquainted with them…”  
  
He was fairly certain he would have a marriage proposal by the end of the night.

Most young men in his position would welcome it. Dorian had never heard of a marriage in Tevinter that happened for love. Marrying for love was a silly southern custom, where they had little regard for purity of bloodline and strength of magic and power. Marriage was cutthroat, and as much about politics as bloodlines. The opportunity to pass on one’s name, blood, and aptitude for magic was exciting.

And Dorian just wasn’t interested. He was just fifteen, and didn’t even know what he wanted to specialize in yet!

As it happened, meetings with advisors for specializations came in the next few days, along with the interests of other women who, while still young, were all older than Dorian by a good five or six years. It was exhausting having to smile all the time, when he just wanted to curl up in bed with a good tome on magic theory, a cup of herbal tea, and Lepidus rubbing his shoulders.

But after a few days the First Enchanter took on Dorian’s specialty training as a personal project, when the other Enchanters were left at a loss. “You’ve shown great aptitude in the primal arts,” the First Enchanter said. “You do well with electricity.”

“Parlor tricks, First Enchanter,” Dorian said, fiddling with the head of his staff.

The First Enchanter narrowed his eyes and leaned forward over his desk. He searched Dorian’s face. “You mastered the primal skills early on. And primal, that’shardly worthy of your talent. But…” He paused to think. “Yes. It could work. Come with me.”

Dorian followed the man to a smaller room, dark and lit only with very dim, soft globes of greenish light that made him feel he was swimming. The only pieces of furniture were soft black chaise lounges pushed against the wall. In the middle of the room was an obsidian pedestal with a bowl carved out of it, and in the bowl, glowing a gentle pulsing blue, was lyrium. Dorian glanced at the First Enchanter, curious. “We’re going into the Fade,” he said.

The First Enchanter nodded. “Yes. Prepare your mind. Take the lyrium when you are ready, and I will meet you there.”

This was nothing new to Dorian, but he’d never done it without someone he knew and trusted nearby. He was confident in his power, but the Fade was unpredictable, unable to be mastered; those who tried ended up abominations or worse. Also, he could not always control himself there. The last thing he needed was a desire demon showing up while he was working with the First Enchanter.

But he did as he had been bidden, and then reclined on a soft chaise lounge. The green light of the room seemed to grow brighter; the walls dissolved; the floors were gone, and then he was in the Raw Fade.

It was a little like coming home: he was in the place of dreams, where unreality was real and his thoughts were solid. It was the place where he set aside the finely tailored clothes; the expensive tutors; even the prestigious bloodline and just existed.

But this time he was on an assignment, so he sat on a stone bench that just appeared and waited. Spirits floated around, which he did not mind. Dorian found their presence comforting, and they usually kept the demons at bay. One, a spirit of knowledge, gave him a passing nod, which Dorian returned. For some the spirits of the Fade were just magical entities, but Dorian knew they would be more agreeable to binding and service if first shown respect and understanding.

“The spirits pay you honor,” The First Enchanter said, materializing next to him on the bench.

“It goes both ways,” Dorian said, reaching out as one spirit offered a wisp of light in its wake. “I honor them, they honor me. I have a healthy respect for the fact that I am in their realm, on their terms.”

The First Enchanter actually smiled. “I do not know if that’s the most insightful or the most naïve thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. He pointed. “Look over that way. Tell me what you see.”

Dorian looked in the direction the man pointed. He saw the usual Fade spirits flitting about, but there were others: darker, sadder, wandering looking for purpose. “They have no reason to be here. They want a reason,” he said. He looked over at the First Enchanter, who nodded. Dorian started to walk toward them, then glanced back. The First Enchanter said nothing, did nothing, leaving it entirely up to Dorian to make his choice.

He took a deep breath and headed over the rolling hills, pushing aside the mist like thick green velvet curtains. The first sad spirit that floated through him scared Dorian slightly, but he stood his ground. They were spirits like the others. He sat on the ground in the middle of them, allowing their darkness to surround him while he just watched.

“They like you.” The First Enchanter stood at a distance, but his voice was as clear to Dorian as if he’d been sitting next to him. “I believe we’ve found your path of study. Though, we’ve not had a Necromancer for a few years.”

A Necromancer. Dorian stood and looked behind him, where other spirits were hovering, watching him, waiting for him. And when he woke he still felt his connection to them, just on the edge of his consciousness. Perhaps Vyrantium would not be so bad after all.


	2. Seven of Cups

_Chapter 2: Seven of Cups_

 

The theories in this book weren’t particularly new or interesting. Dorian had written far more interesting papers that had the Magisterium talking away about his theories, about his ideas, about his potential. But it didn’t matter. It was raining out, he had a fire going, he’d made tea, and Lepidus sat behind him, rubbing the tension out of his shoulders. For two years the slave had done this, to the point that, whenever Dorian set water on for tea, Lepidus got out two cups and sat down on the couch, waiting, without being prompted.

Dorian wasn’t interested in the reading portion of these times. The book was a prop in case another slave, or Maker forbid another Enchanter walked in. Dorian was capable of doing his studies at any other time. But on these rainy days he just wanted to be held.

Certainly there were any number of mage women he could go see. He’d had many invitations over the last two years, and he realized that relations in the Circle were as common as in a Minrathous brothel, if not more so. And if it had just been about the sex, that would be one thing. But there was the scouting; the bribery and research; the obsequious talk and the forward suggestions of what a marriage could cement…

He would take a rainy day with Lepidus any day.

“Good book?”

Dorian closed it on his lap. “No, actually. But it’s kind of you to ask,” he said. He closed his eyes as the slave’s long fingers worked his neck muscles. “Do you read much, outside of my endless itineraries?”

“No, sir. Reading magic texts is forbidden.”

It made sense, and oddly Dorian felt bad for asking. “It’s just as well. Most of them are just like this: self-important, sleep-inducing boredom in physical form.” He let the book fall to the floor and craned his neck around to get a view of Lepidus’s wide, dark eyes.

“Master Dorian?” Lepidus asked in a voice so calm it set Dorian’s pulse fluttering. “If you’d like me to attend you, you need only ask.”

“Attend… attend me… oh!” Dorian blushed and jumped up. “No, I just…”

Lepidus remained seated, staring up at Dorian with his beautiful eyes, so calm that Dorian couldn’t stay anxious forever. “You would not be the first mage,” Lepidus said. “Probably not the last, either—male or female. You need not be embarrassed by it. Pleasure is not forbidden here in Vyrantium.”

No, that was the problem. It was actively encouraged, because it could help form alliances and create gossip. And as the years had gone by, Dorian realized that he wanted more from the pleasure he sought. And that to get more than mere pleasure was impossible.

Lepidus’s confession that there had been others before Dorian stung a bit, but he was foolish to feel jealousy. He was lucky that Lepidus had been by his side for this long. The young man was watching Dorian still, waiting patiently for Dorian’s directive. Dorian’s stomach felt like it was being pulled out of his body, and his mouth went dry. But when he looked at those immense dark eyes, sweeping over him, he wanted nothing more than to take Lepidus in his arms.

So he did.

He ran his hands all over Lepidus, feeling his muscles and his skin, pale and soft from years serving inside the Circle. He held him close and let the slave do as he pleased. Maker, it had been so long since he’d felt anything like this, and it actually felt good. Touching and feeling were so much better than looking.

At last Lepidus pulled away, his cheeks flushed, and those amazing eyes actually sparkling. “You have a session with Enchanter Livius in a half an hour,” he murmured. “I will help you get presentable again. Discussing the difference between death spirits and spirits of those who are dead may require you to look a little less… you know.”

Dorian combed his tousled hair and trimmed the mustache he’d grown in recently. It made him look older. He was still easily the youngest person in the Vyrantium Circle, not counting the slaves. While many were charmed by his theories and his abilities, he wasn’t sure they took him seriously. He was a novelty to them, a pleasant curiosity, Halward’s prodigy on display.

He actually enjoyed the studies; he loved going into the Fade; he loved his dreams and his books, and was quite certain that if he had to stay in Vyrantium for many more years, he would probably be happy here.

Dorian donned his birthright amulet and gave himself a final check before marching to his appointment. Enchanter Livius had made a study of Necromancy earlier in his life, and insisted on regularly reviewing Dorian’s studies of the subject. Dorian, however, knew from reading that he’d long since surpassed Livius’s abilities and understanding of the subject. Livius was having Dorian teach him what he knew. Only vain pride kept him from admitting this, and it vaguely irritated Dorian.

Still, an appointment was an appointment. Dorian hadn’t missed one yet in two years. Everyone had assumed that, because of his age, he would be irresponsible: a spoiled brat who wasted his parents’ money, squandering his time with drinking and gaming and missing lessons and meetings.

Dorian did so love to disappoint people.

He paused outside of Livius’s conservatory and took a deep breath before putting on his invisible mask. What had happened with Lepidus was the past. But perhaps in the future…

“Dorian. Welcome.” Livius opened the door without waiting for Dorian’s usual knock. “I invited guests to today’s tutorial.”

Dorian pasted on a pleasantly blank smile. “I wish you’ve have told me; I’d have taken more time to preen before coming,” he said.

“No need to preen,” his father said, rising from the low sofa on which he sat. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

It felt like the whole of the Hissing Waste desert was in his mouth. “Father.” He hesitated a moment and then bowed deeply, years of etiquette lessons kicking in when his brain could not calculate quickly enough what was happening. “It’s been a long time. I hope you and mother are well,” he said, because what did you say when you were dropped off at a Circle of Mages at the age of fifteen, and didn’t see your either of your parents for the last two years?

The three men stood in a triangle, the silence so absolute that Dorian could almost hear the constant deep thrumming of magic that was always around, but that he’d learned to block out. “Enchanter Livius tells me you’ve excelled in your field,” Halward said at last, and that seemed to break the spell of awkwardness that had descended over the room.

“I wasn’t aware you’d spoken,” Dorian said, glancing at Livius.

“He writes me letters on a regular basis. Since my son can’t be bothered to,” Halward said. He smiled, but his eyes were hard. Challenging. Able to reduce Dorian from seventeen to seven in a matter of seconds.

“My studies keep me occupied,” Dorian said with a shrug.

“I am keen to see what you’ve been preparing,” Halward said after a long stare at his son. “And there is to be a soiree this evening, at the estate of Magister Stephanos.”

“How lovely, but how unexpected,” Dorian said, trying desperately not to show how the news had shaken him. “My assistant is usually so on top of these things; I’m surprised he did not alert me.” He glanced at Livius; the old man would likely not be on the guest list, since he’d outlived his usefulness. The First Enchanter would be present, and likely some of the top ranking Magister families.

Another show.

The hour passed so slowly, with Livius droning on and on, that Dorian thought he would have to resurrect himself after dying from boredom. This was the usual way of things, but with his father in the room, he had to take extra care to appear interested and amenable to suggestions, even if Livius was full of hot air.

When he bowed to take his leave, his father followed him out into the hallway and silently accompanied him to his rooms. “I’ve missed you, Dorian,” Halward said at last. “The house is quiet without you casting unsupervised spells.”

“All the better for mother to finally get that beauty sleep I supposedly deprived her of,” Dorian said. “Will she be gracing the soiree with her presence?” He waved his hand and the complex warding runes he’d placed on the door dissipated.

“Yes. She asked me to bring you this.” He pointed to the box on Dorian’s bed, which must have been laid out while he was in the conservatory.

Dorian pulled the cover off the box and stared at the set of robes in the Pavus family colors inside. His throat clenched up from panic. Tonight he would not be representing Vyrantium; he would be representing the Pavus household. “The occasion?” he choked out, blinking and keeping his smile pasted on. He sounded so calm. He just wanted to scream; to run outside and conjure a ball of fire and hurl it at anything that moved, to call down a lightning bolt to zap him out of existence before Halward could say what he was thinking.

“Stephanos’s daughter Lavinia has been accepted for a position in Minrathous,” Halward said. “He wishes to celebrate.”

“And marry her off,” Dorian said, clenching his hands.

“You will be of age next year,” his father pointed out. “I know how fascinating your studies are, and I’m pleased you’ve found your talents as a Necromancer. It was a surprise to everyone, and not an unpleasant one at that. But the Enchanters with whom I speak from time to time, they say you’ve not yet shown much interest in the ladies here.”

Dorian absently touched one end of his mustache. “So tonight isn’t about Lavinia; it’s about parading your son like a piece of meat in the market,” he said.

“Dorian, there are obligations…”

“Father. I’m _the youngest_ one here! Besides, I thought you shipped me to Vyrantium to serve the Imperium.”

“Marriage will serve the Imperium as well as your studies.”

Dorian sighed. “I’ll go to this party this evening,” he said. “But if I look like I’m asleep, it’s probably because I find the death spirits in the Fade more palatable companionship.”

Halward shook his head in disgust, but Dorian kept staring at his father until at last he left. Dorian stared at the robes and at the closed door, then sighed once more before replacing the privacy wards and calling softly for Lepidus.

***

 “Magister Halward and Lady Aquinea Pavus,” the announcer said, and Dorian’s parents entered the hall of Magister Stephanos. “Lord Dorian Pavus of the Circle of Vyrantium,” the man said next, and Dorian entered. He carried himself tall and proud, the only child and heir of the Pavus legacy. He knew he was dashing in the dark green brocade robe set, with the gold amulet on his chest. He knew they all looked at him with envy, maybe a little bit of bitterness. He knew that as much as he fit in, he was out of place.

 “Dorian. So wonderful of you to leave the Circle,” Magister Stephanos said in greeting. “We were beginning to believe Halward had locked you up for good,” he said with a chuckle that made Dorian feel cold.

 “My forays into Necromancy have proven demanding,” he said. Good. When at a loss for words, impress them. “It’s rewarding study, but demanding.” And he grabbed a glass of wine from the first slave who passed him.

 “I do hope you’ve not forgotten how to enjoy yourself,” Stephanos’s wife, Lady Perdia, said. “We did so enjoy seeing you dance with Magister Faustus’s daughter at your mother’s summer salon two years ago.”

 Dorian smiled and feigned embarrassment. “I hope I’ve improved since then, my lord and lady,” he said. In truth he didn’t really care. Lord Faustus’s daughter was a self-important lackwit, like most young ladies in Tevinter. She’d stepped on his toes so many times that he’d gone to see a healer the next morning.

 “I’m sure you have. The years could not be unkind to someone like you,” said Lavinia Stephanos, appearing at her father’s elbow. “Shall we test this theory?” she asked, and Dorian could almost hear the collective sigh of every other young lady in the hall as they put their hopes of having the first dance out of their minds. Oh, there were plenty of other eligible young Magisters’ sons. But in Tevinter, everything was competition.

 “You must explain Necromancy at some point,” Lavinia said as she took his hand. “It sounds fascinating. I’ll be studying spirits’ roles in Creation Magic…” she said and went on and on, listing her tutors’ names and her courses of study.

 “You are quite qualified, Lady Lavinia,” Dorian said, only half listening to her as he surveyed the other couples on the dance floor. It was like watching shadows dance; for some odd reason no one in his social circle seemed to favor color; it was as if they were showing disdain for the lands in the south. “Tell me more,” he added, because if she was talking about herself, she wasn’t asking him questions.

 He barely had time to down a glass of wine before Viola Fabius was giggling and blushing and asking for a dance, and by the time he was dancing with Ursula Timonian it seemed as if all eyes were on him. His father stood up on the dais with Magister Stephanos, watching him as well, and those were the only eyes Dorian could really feel watching his every move.

 Dorian excused himself at the end of the set, and apologized profusely to yet another Magister’s daughter as he headed to the other side of the room from his father. His sarcastic remark about heading to the Fade was starting to sound better and better, but there was no lyrium present so he settled for sitting on a deep red velvet couch in a corner.

 Next thing he knew someone was handing him another glass of wine. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ve quite exhausted my dancing for the time being,” he said.

 “How about gossip, then?” And before Dorian could respond, the dark-haired young man was sitting next to him, also sipping his own glass of wine and smiling. Even when he tried to look serious his eyes crinkled just slightly at the corners, and Dorian smiled in spite of himself. “Felix Alexius. Son of Gereon Alexius.”

 “Dorian Pavus. Son of Halward Pavus.”

 “I know. You’re hard to ignore,” Felix said. “It seems every Magister from Vyrantium to Minrathous is talking about you.”

 “I do leave an impression,” Dorian said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “What’s yours, I wonder?” he asked, feeling a little giddier than he probably should have. It had to be the wine and the dancing and the lack of any substantial food.

 Felix stared out over the dance floor, and Dorian followed his gaze to where his father was talking with a Magister he didn’t recognize. “You should flirt with the girls more,” Felix said. “You don’t have to mean any of it, but it will throw him off a bit.”

 Dorian blinked. “I just finished two full sets of dances with the most vapid young ladies in all of the Imperium.”

 Felix kept staring ahead. “Not just when dancing, but at other times. In your Circle. At home. People talk about what you _don’t_ do as much as the things you _do_.”

 “You’re quite perceptive, Felix,” Dorian said, keeping his tone light, though inside he was certain his intestines had grown legs and were trying to escape.

 “I’m here to help,” Felix said, finally turning to smile at him. “And I think I can. Your father came here tonight hoping to secure a marriage with Lavinia.”

 “I figured as much,” Dorian said, and the prospect made him suddenly sad, and a little angry. “Do you plan to marry her instead, and save me a lifetime of suffering with your heroic action?” he asked.

 Felix shook his head. “That’s not as tempting as you make it sound,” he said with a smile. “I can’t stop a marriage proposal. But I can secure an apprenticeship with a Magister. It can buy you at least a year.”

 That was the sad truth of things. Felix could help him, but not the way Dorian needed, nor for nearly as long as he needed. One day he would have to bow to his father’s wishes. Get married, sire perfect and powerful children, and wear a mask every single day, hating himself for lying to everyone around him. And most of all for lying to himself.

 Still. It was better than nothing.

 “Several Magisters have expressed interest,” Felix told him. “But I have… sway with my father. He rarely denies me anything I ask for,” he said, and a flicker of sadness passed over his handsomely chiseled face.

 “That’s convenient,” Dorian said. “So why would you ask for me?” he ventured, and immediately regretted his boldness. He would have to blame the wine later.

 “Maybe someday I’ll have an answer,” Felix said. “Take care and consider what we’ve spoken of, Dorian.” He rose, gave a quick bow, and was gone, leaving Dorian staring across the dance floor to where his father still sat, still watching and waiting, but for what, Dorian was not sure.

 It was most disconcerting.


	3. Six of Swords

_Chapter 3: Six of Swords_

 

            Magic: noun. Power that influenced the course of events using mysterious forces. Magister: noun, one who practiced magic from a position of political power. Magisterium: noun, ostensibly the gathering place of magisters, but in reality the most boring place in all of Thedas, surrounded by some of the most pompous people Dorian would ever meet. And he was supposed to become one of them someday? It made him want to laugh.

            But his father was on the floor, engaged in a long, drawn out argument; he would definitely quiz Dorian about it later, probably over dinner, so Dorian had to pay attention. Discussion centered on the Blight in Ferelden, something he found troublesome even though it was so far in the south. He knew his history and knew why the Magisterium was avoiding the topic in favor of sending yet more troops to battle with the Qunari.

“A Blight does not concern us,” Halward was saying. “The Imperium has faced Blights in the past. This is one of the first that is not a threat to us and we should take advantage of the opportunities to strike our enemies on our very doorstep.”

            It was the same thing as always: The Imperium. Look to Tevinter’s needs first and foremost. Maybe Dorian could go to sleep and just regurgitate a few key phrases when asked by his father later on…

            “A Blight may strike far away, but its effects may be felt close to home when you least expect it.”

            This was new. Dorian blinked the boredom from his eyes and sat up. Magister Alexius had risen to challenge Halward’s views, and the rest of the Magisterium had erupted into whispers. Alexius had made quite the play, and just maybe things would get interesting. Dorian had heard the murmured gossip, of course. Lady Alexius had been killed in a darkspawn attack returning from Hossburg, and rumors had it that Felix had contracted Blight sickness.

            Dorian saw Felix a few seats away in the gallery, watching his father. He didn’t look sickly, but then again, all the pictures Dorian had seen of darkspawn were twisted mockeries of humans. Felix glanced over and caught Dorian’s eye and rolled his eyes as their fathers tried to outdo one another on the senate floor. He inclined his head toward the door at the back of the gallery and Dorian nodded gratefully.

            “They’ll go on for hours if nobody steps in,” Felix said when they had exited to the veranda. “But they’ll probably simmer down soon now that we’re gone.”

            “If they were trying to impress me, wine or a new cloak would have been far more effective,” Dorian said with a grin. He leaned on the veranda railing, staring out over the twisting streets of Minrathous. “Do you ever get tired of this, Felix?” he asked. “The etiquette; the foolishness. The pissing contests.”

            Felix stood next to him, lightly gripping the railing. “Sometimes, yes. But it’s more than all that. We’re surrounded by people and still alone. Everyone trying to outdo everyone else. Alliances mean next to nothing, if you can break one to enter into a more convenient one when it suits you.” He looked over at Dorian, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. It’s just me and my father, and I don’t go out much these days. I have time to think about these things.”

            The door opened behind them, and Dorian turned to see his father and Gereon Alexius coming to join them. “That was quite the debate, Gereon,” Halward said with a chuckle. “I’m sure old Magister Philoric is still trying to decode what we were saying.”

            “Philoric doesn’t know a darkspawn from a Qunari,” Gereon Alexius said, laughing. He approached his son, his eyes sweeping over him as if doing a quick check for something possibly amiss. “Are you well, Felix? When I saw you’d left the gallery I was worried and we wrapped up our debate.” He looked edgy, as if he dreaded whatever Felix’s answer was going to be.

            Felix shook his head. “It was stuffy inside, so Dorian and I decided to take some air out here.” He raised his eyebrows and met his father’s eyes. “I’m well, father; there’s no need for concern.”

            Alexius did not seem convinced, but after another moment of staring he nodded and turned to Dorian. On the senate floor, Alexius looked imposing with his piercing eyes and the deep lines carved in his face. Up close he looked careworn and tired, as if he’d been worrying more than he could spare. Just the way he looked at Felix was enough to convince Dorian that the rumors were true. “Young Lord Dorian,” he said with a deep nod of acknowledgement. “The news out of Vyrantium has your name all over it these days.”

            “They exaggerate,” Dorian said. “I am grateful for the opportunities the Vyrantium Circle provides me.”

            Alexius smiled and shook his head. “Your lord father taught you well,” he said with a glance at Halward. “Come, Dorian. Let’s drop the humble act; there’s no need for it between equals.”

            Dorian’s heartbeat picked up. Equals? A full Magister, calling him equal? His first instinct was to be proud—perhaps he’d become the youngest full Magister in the Imperium as well. But the more he took in Alexius’s slow smile and calculating gaze, the more he reined in his enthusiasm. “You do me great honor, Magister,” he said with a slight bow. “I am always in the service of my lord father and the Imperium.”

            The four men left the Magisterium and settled in at a small café for lunch, which Dorian knew by now was code for negotiation; and he was the commodity. It was flattering, but also unsettling the way they could discuss him in his presence as if he weren’t there; and even more disconcerting, it was improper for him to say anything of the way he felt about any of this. He was forced to sit there in the shade and choke down his food as Halward and Alexius brokered Dorian’s future away from Vyrantium.

            “It’s a sabbatical away from that hole,” Alexius said, waving his hand. “Halward, you of all people should know they’re using him. He’s brilliant. Let him out to experience the world. Let him study with the Magisters.”

            “He can’t become Archon if he’s a Magister,” Halward said evenly.

            Magister. Archon. Dorian’s head reeled from the heat of the sun and the heat of the conversation.

            “He won’t become a Magister,” Alexius reassured him. “While the Magisterium would certainly benefit, the Imperium as a whole just can’t be deprived of this talent.”

            And so the conversation went on, and Dorian just tuned it out. Anything else Alexius had to say was simply for the benefit of stroking Halward’s ego until he agreed to whatever Alexius asked. Dorian saw Felix out of the corner of his eye, pushing his food around on his plate and looking disinterested. But he looked up and caught Dorian’s eye and tried to smile.

            Dorian returned the smile. It was looking more and more likely that he would be leaving Vyrantium. At this point, the Vyrantium mages were learning more from him than he from them. A change could be good. Besides, he could think of worse things than having to spend more time with Felix Alexius.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Alexius is… experimenting, for lack of a better word,” Halward explained as they traveled from Minrathous to Vyrantium the next morning. “As you of all people are well aware, there is much in this world that magic can control, but much that is controlled by magic. When we can use magic to control magic: that is when we see the true glory of Tevinter.”

            “Yes, because the rest of the world so approves of slave sacrifices to fuel blood magic rituals,” Dorian said wryly. The Pavus family did not indulge in blood magic, though it was well known that most in the Magisterium did. It was one of the worst kept secrets in Tevinter, and no one seemed to care.

            Halward sighed. “You’ll take care not to have such a sharp tongue with Magister Alexius, I hope.”

            “So it’s finalized. Thank you for asking about my opinion on the matter,” Dorian said, staring out the window of the carriage.

            “I can’t imagine why you’d even need to think about it, Dorian,” Halward said, sounding genuinely bewildered. “Hundreds of boys and girls your age are clamoring over one another to be considered for mentorships, and Gereon Alexius _sought you out_. You’re the most envied young man in the Imperium, I’d wager.”

            “How wonderful to be me,” Dorian said with a sigh, resting his head on his hand and preparing for another lecture about his attitude. It never came, and at last he looked up to see Halward staring at him with a pensive expression. “What? Does blue wash me out?” he asked, glancing down at his robes.

            “If you’re going to be mentored by a Magister, you will need to change your habits,” Halward said. An icy feeling flowed down Dorian’s spine. “I know about your servant, and I’ve seen the way you look at other men.”

            Dorian leaned back in his seat casually and yawned. “Did some Magister’s jealous daughter fill your mind with that?” he asked, keeping his tone light, and wishing that Tevinter had adopted the Orlesian practice of wearing masks.

            “You are our legacy,” Halward said. His eyes never left Dorian, and the worst part was he didn’t seem angry; he was more… sad than anything. “The continuation of the Pavus line rests with you.”

            “I hadn’t realized,” Dorian said, hoping against hope that he could keep from being sick on the floor of the carriage. Phenomenal power and all the privilege in the world: and he was still trapped. “You only drive it into my skull every other time we speak.”

            “Because you don’t take it seriously enough!” Halward’s calm mask cracked and the way he leaned forward made Dorian flinch back, afraid his father was going to slap him. “House Pavus is one of the oldest of the Altus houses, and it must not fall. You _will_ marry, Dorian. You _will_ serve the Imperium in a manner befitting your breeding and talent.” Dorian stared out the window at the passing countryside. They were on the long road between Vyrantium and Minrathous, and the clouds were gathering on the horizon. “Dorian,” Halward said more gently. “This is what’s best.”

            “For whom?” Dorian asked quietly, but his father did not answer.

            By the time they arrived back in Vyrantium it was dark and the clouds had opened up. Sheets of rain sluiced down from the heavens and Dorian did not bother to conjure a shield to keep himself dry. He would not even bid his father farewell, no matter how sorrowful Halward’s face looked; Dorian’s only thought was to go to his rooms and make some tea, and curl up in front of a fire.

            His father did not follow him in; the coach left in the rain, bound for Qarinus. Dorian stormed down the halls toward his rooms, caring little that it was late and many would be sleeping. He flung open his door and shot an angry gout of flame from his palm at the fireplace, but it remained darkened. Dorian blinked, caught off guard. He’d learned elemental magic before the age of ten, and starting a fire was as easy as blinking; so why didn’t his perfectly good fire light in a perfectly good fireplace?

            Dorian cast a magelight spell, holding the insubstantial globe out in front of him as he turned slowly to survey his quarters.

            Empty.

            His bed had been stripped of linens, the fireplace was devoid of logs, and his trunks had been packed and removed. It was as if he’d never existed here in Vyrantium. He trembled as he checked the small antechamber that served as Lepidus’s bedroom. Also empty, the bed stripped and cold.

            Dorian shivered in his soaked clothing as he let his magelight flicker and die. He curled up on the bare mattress. He may as well have just stayed in Minrathous. But his father would have known that. In making him come back here, to see his life in this Circle erased, Halward was telling Dorian that the choice to study under Alexius had already been made, and Dorian had no choice but to obey.

 


	4. Two of Swords

_Chapter 4: Two of Swords_

            He loved feeling the warm breath on his ear, the soft touch on his shoulder, and the faint scent of citrus and amber. Teasing fingers trailed and tingled along his chest and Dorian shivered with pleasure.

            “You like this?”

            He kept his eyes closed. “I do. But this can’t keep happening.”

            A sigh, a pout, another tingle like electricity up Dorian’s spine and down to his loins. “But you enjoy this so much. It’s like you lose yourself.”

            “And that’s why this can’t continue,” he said, opening his eyes. “If I lose myself, I become everything I swore I’d never be.” He extricated himself from the Desire Demon’s hold. It usually appeared to him as any number of the young men Dorian had seen and found attractive, but never truly knew, and those times were the easiest for him to realize the temptation. But the demon, Ophelia, was becoming craftier of late, and just now looked like Felix; or if Dorian blinked, like Lepidus. And it was so damned hard to resist.

            “Good day, Ophelia. Please don’t trouble me again,” he said politely, as he always did, and grasped at the faint threads that would take him out of the Fade and back to the conscious world.

            It took a long time for Dorian to feel like he was really conscious again, and when he tried to sit up from the chaise he felt dizzy. He couldn’t lie back again though, and risk falling back into the Fade. That was exactly what Ophelia wanted. He swung his legs over the side and rested his feet on the floor, and leaned on one elbow with his head down as he waited for the vertigo to subside.

            When he looked up Alexius was standing in the doorway, watching him. It made Dorian nervous whenever that happened. How much did Alexius know, and how much did he see? Did he ever travel into the Fade behind Dorian and watch, the way Dorian’s tutors had done when he first learned to navigate that strange limbo? He wasn’t nervous about the demon; plenty of mages dealt with demons on a regular basis. But if Alexius had seen Dorian’s true desires laid bare by Ophelia’s wiles…

            “Another demon?” Alexius asked and Dorian nodded as he pushed himself upright. “I’m surprised you haven’t dealt with more of them, to be honest,” he said and sat down next to Dorian. “With your abilities I’d think every demon in the Fade would be scrambling to make your acquaintance.”

            Dorian smiled, feeling drained and weak. “Just Ophelia again,” he said. “She’s relentless. Can’t keep her hands off of me.” Alexius laughed. “It would be interesting to know why you attract a Desire Demon. I’d think Pride would be more your style.”

            “I asked, but the Pride Demons were busy. Apparently they heard the Magisterium was in session,” Dorian quipped, and Alexius laughed again before beckoning for Dorian to get ready for dinner. Magister Urathus and Livius Eremond were due for dinner, and Alexius was eager to show off his new protégé.

            Dorian wouldn’t tell Alexius, or his father, or Felix, or anyone; but he knew why the Desire Demon came to him so frequently and with such fervor. And why now, and not sooner in his training.

            Dorian had never wanted for anything in his life; since leaving Vyrantium six months ago, all he did was want.

            He wanted to go back.

            He wanted choose his own path.

            He wanted to love any man he chose.

            He wanted to change the confines of Tevinter society.

            It wasn’t within his power to do any of those things, and it kept him awake at night. When he did slip into the Fade all of his desires were made manifest, and Ophelia came to him with promises of the things he could not have. He only had to surrender to her.

            The first time he said no, he thought it would get easier. But each time she offered him more of what he wanted, and it became progressively difficult to deny her. Because denying her meant denying himself. The closer he got to coming of age, the more he realized he hated what he was becoming. He feared that one day he would look in a mirror and not recognize the man staring back.

            Charmion was waiting for him in his room. She wore a flowing shift dress, deep burnt orange trimmed with gold: the colors of the Alexius household. “Master,” she said simply, taking his cloak and assisting him with his other garments as he changed for dinner. Dorian stood still as Charmion helped dress him. He was perfectly capable of dressing himself, but he knew that his behavior was under a magnifying lens. Slaves could be made to talk to their masters; and masters who were Magisters or Altuses talked to one another.

            Her touches lingered a bit longer on his bare skin than was appropriate, and while Dorian smiled, he gritted his teeth and felt hollow. Charmion looked up at him through her long, dark lashes and worked at buttoning and buckling his clothing. “You are dashing, Master,” she said with a bow. “The ladies Mariana and Titania will be unable to resist you.”

            “I would hate to disappoint them,” Dorian said. He fastened his amulet around his neck himself, brushing away Charmion’s hand. This was one thing he would control. “Magister Urathus’s daughters are said to be among the wonders of Minrathous,” he added. But their brother, Oberon, was one of the wonders of all of Tevinter, Dorian thought with a secretive smile.

            Felix joined Dorian out in the gardens, where more orange-clad Alexius slaves were serving shots of a chilled citrus liqueur. Dorian shot one down and took another immediately, which he raised to Felix in a mock toast. “To another exciting dinner?” he asked. “If the Orlesians could be bothered to get over themselves, they’d be disappointed to see that all we evil Tevinters do is hold meetings and garden parties.”

            “Don’t forget the sacrifices,” Felix said, also raising his shot glass. “Those should be coming later on.”

            Dorian just laughed, but there was a part of him that wasn’t so sure Felix was joking; and he would be embarrassed to ask, either way. Even though Dorian was a guest in the Alexius house at the Magister’s insistence, and though he was practically being groomed to be the youngest Archon in known history, he still felt the need to impress Felix.

            “Ah, Dorian. Magister Urathus, and Enchanter Eremond,” Alexius said, approaching Dorian and Felix. He glanced at his son, and though he kept on his smile, Dorian could see the concern flaring in his eyes. Felix leaned against a pergola post, looking casual and relaxed, though possibly he needed the support. “My son,” he said at last.

            “Magister. Enchanter.” Felix bowed to the two men. “You honor us with your presence.”

            Eremond and Urathus nodded thanks, but their eyes were on Dorian. “This is Halward’s son?” Eremond asked with a smile that was meant to be pleasant, but looked predatory. “You’ve pushed the boundaries of the school of Necromancy,” he said. “Have you considered practical applications? Other than rotting away in Vyrantium as a theoretical scholar,” Eremond added.

            Dorian smiled. He had to, of course. But inside he bristled whenever anyone insinuated that his time with Vyrantium was a waste, and even more so that he would never return there. As far as he was concerned, the apprenticeship with Alexius was the temporary arrangement. “All magical study is practical, Enchanter,” Dorian said, flashing a brilliantly confident smile. “Unless you’re in the south; then it’s just an inconvenience at best, and a curse at worst.”

            Eremond laughed. “You have your father’s way with words, Dorian,” he said. “Perhaps we will see how sound your theory is later this evening.”

            It was a clear challenge to Dorian’s confidence, and he refused to show any weakness. He just nodded once politely and excused himself to find another glass of wine. He felt edgy, like he was seeing and hearing too much at once, both in this world and the Fade. Alexius had to know that Dorian hadn’t been sleeping well, so why plan such an event now?

            Precisely because Dorian was, for once, not at the top of his game.

            Even his mentor was out to get him, it seemed.

            But maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe he just had to let go a bit and enjoy himself. He found a slave serving wine and took two glasses, intending to down both of them, but when he turned around Titania Urathus was standing before him. She bowed low, showing a gratuitous amount of copper-colored cleavage. “Lord Dorian,” she said in greeting. “One can scarcely travel anywhere in Minrathous these days without hearing your name.”

            He bowed as well, still holding the wine glasses steady. “Lady Titania. You look lovely this evening. I trust you are enjoying yourself?” he asked, handing her the second glass.

            “I am, thank you. Are you enjoying your studies with Magister Alexius?”

            Dorian nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’m learning more practical applications of my skills,” he said, regurgitating Eremond’s words from only moments before. The truth was he wasn’t sure just yet _what_ he was learning from Alexius. The magical studies hadn’t included much more than what he’d studied before Vyrantium. “And of course the politics,” he added. “Simply fascinating.” He took a sip of his wine. It was smooth and mellow and warm as it went down his throat.

            “My father’s always talking politics,” she said, tossing her glossy dark curls over her shoulder and sipping her wine. She had full pouty lips and dark eyes that turned up at the corners slightly, and high cheekbones that gave her a regal mien. “It’s the language of our household, it seems.”

            “My lady, it’s the language of all Tevinter,” Dorian said and finished his wine. It left him feeling more relaxed. “Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm to Titania. She took it and they walked the gardens, eventually meeting up with Felix, Oberon, and Mariana. Mariana hung on Felix’s arm, clearly already drunk. Oberon was talking some sort of politics, but Dorian was just entranced by the way Oberon’s robes clung to his lithe form.

            “Brother, dear,” Titania said, touching Oberon’s arm lightly. Her twin stopped in his tirade and smiled. “I’d like to present Dorian Pavus.”

            Dorian nodded in greeting and smiled, but Oberon glared at him. “It is a pleasure, Lord Oberon,” Dorian said when it became clear that Oberon was not going to be any help. “I hear you hope to become Magister soon.”

            Oberon narrowed his eyes. “Am I supposed to be grateful that you’re speaking with me?” he asked.

            Dorian blinked in confusion. “I was being civil,” he said, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Oberon was looking for a fight, and Dorian was not in the mood to give him one. “I apologize if you’re offended.”

            “I’m sure you’re terribly sorry,” Oberon said. “Excuse me,” he said to Felix, and stormed away.

            Dorian watched him go, too confused by Oberon’s bitterness to appreciate the view. “Was it something I said? Something I didn’t say?” he asked Felix.

            “My brother’s always been the jealous sort,” Titania said, and Dorian remembered that she was still hanging on his arm. He longed to pull it out of her grasp, but that would be rude. He’d already slighted one of the Urathus children; slighting another was social suicide. His father would probably have him sent south and made Tranquil if he did anything of the sort.

            “He’s also hot headed,” Felix said. He smiled at Dorian. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get over having a stave up his ass eventually.”

            Titania laughed and pretended to be offended, lightly slapping Felix on the shoulder. “Your father would keel over if he heard such things from you!”

            “Probably,” Felix said and winked at Dorian before offering his arm to Mariana and heading in for dinner.

            Dorian thought that if he could just make it through the meal, he would be fine. So far talk had just been about the direction of the Magisterium, and a mention about the Blight in Ferelden coming to an end. “Apparently the Grey Warden survived the final blow to the Archdemon,” Eremond said. “It’s unheard of. It could be worth looking into, unless the Wardens get their hands on her first. I’d imagine they’d want to know how she did it,” he said.

            “You are _not_ planning another trip to the Anderfels, are you, Livius?” Urathus asked with a chuckle, though Alexius and Felix seemed pensive. “You know how the Wardens feel about us ‘Vints’. They exist to clean up our mess!” That did get a laugh from everyone around the table.

            “Well. We’ve had enough of business,” Alexius said at last, pushing his chair away from the table. “I do believe it’s time for the fun.”

            “What’s your father’s idea of fun?” Dorian asked Felix as they trailed behind the others on their way to a small den.

            “You’ll see,” Felix said. He gave an offhand smile and didn’t meet Dorian’s eyes, and Dorian wished he could learn teleportation magic and disappear.

            The den was piled with large, overstuffed pillows. Everyone reclined and servants brought bowls of cold peeled grapes before dimming the lamps. From a darkened corner came the sounds of a lute being strummed. Dorian was tired and a bit drunk, and the dimness and softness of this room were so tempting. His eyelids drooped.

            Felix nudged him and Dorian scrambled to sit up and pay attention. Two female slaves sat in the center of the room, staring into each others’ eyes. Their hands met; then their lips. Then they were tangled with one another in ways Dorian didn’t realize were physically possible. All the while the lute music played and Felix and Titania and Oberon ate grapes and the two girls kept writhing and kissing.

            Dorian glanced over at Alexius. He was watching, but not with the same intensity as the others. He appeared to be concentrating. Charmion sat next to him, staring raptly ahead. She held out her arm to him, and as Dorian watched, Alexius dragged a gleaming silver blade over her wrist. As the blood oozed out of the gash, the other two girls’ kissing became a frenzy of touching and groaning and he forced himself to watch, just like everyone else. He thought he felt Alexius’s eyes on him but he did not turn to see. This was just a test, just like anything else, he kept telling himself.

            It was just a little blood. Not the gushing fountains of blood that people in Orlais thought they used. It just took a little. This happened all the time in Tevinter. Dorian could deal with this.

            Then the chants began. The room felt darker, closer, as the two slaves continued their passion play on the floor in front of everyone. Eremond was chanting, his eyes rolled back in his head as he went into the Fade. Dorian glanced at Felix, but his friend was busy watching the show. He swallowed nervously and tried taking deep breaths to calm himself.

            “Now,” Eremond said in a voice that was his but was not his at the same time.

            Dorian looked over at Alexius, who took the knife and without warning drew it across Charmion’s throat. Her eyes went wide in shock; her hands scrabbled at her bleeding neck, and the red blood spurted onto the floor and over the lovemaking couple. Dorian held back a shout of horror, though his heart crashed against his ribs.

            In the center of the room, above the kissing girls, a form coalesced. Her pale purple eyes scanned the room. “Your desire is my command,” she said with a smile, looking down at the two below her with a smile of approval. “I see you already got started without me. How naughty,” she said. She turned to Alexius, who still held the dripping knife. “You’ve shed blood to bring me here. Command me and your desires shall be manifest.” Her voice was the purr of a kitten, the coo of a dove, the hiss of a snake.

            “You know my desire already,” he said with a glance at Felix. “And I know it’s not within your power to grant. So grant us respite from the frustrations that plague us.” Eremond chuckled, and Urathus leaned forward with a leering grin on his face.

            The demon made her rounds and Dorian ignored pangs of jealousy when she caressed Oberon and kissed Felix, and Alexius and Eremond smiled while Urathus continued to watch the slave pair, his expression a mixture of delight and revulsion. She wasn’t anything quite like Ophelia, which was something Dorian was grateful for. He tried to keep his eyes averted, but it seemed that watching was encouraged.

He’d spent his life navigating the terrains of the Fade and of Tevinter politics and society, and yet he’d never felt as lost as he did now. He’d been told he was powerful to the point he believed it, and now he felt helpless. The demon approached him and her face was a mask of amusement. Her voice was a whisper in his mind telling him to relax, to submit, to enjoy. She knelt down and straddled his lap, her hands on his face, her touch tingling and tantalizing.

            The sensation stopped. She looked up and shrieked before disappearing. The room felt brighter. The music stopped. Everything was still covered in blood, but Alexius had dropped the knife and run to Felix’s side. He was keeled over and shaking as if with fever. “We’re done here,” Alexius announced, holding his son; his hands made bloody prints on Felix’s clothing. “Calla. Ember. See the Magisters out,” he snapped at the two girls on the floor.

            Calla and Ember stared at one another for a timeless moment. Their eyes took in the blood, took in Charmion’s limp body, took in their state of undress. Calla’s eyes widened and she looked like she may burst into tears. Ember whimpered.

            “Do as I say!” Alexius snapped without looking at them. “Or I’ll use one of you next!”

            Calla scrambled to her feet, struggling to right her shift, while Ember tried to wipe the blood off her feet but only smeared it more. They led the Magisters and their families out of the room, leaving Dorian alone with Alexius, Felix, and Charmion’s body. “It will be fine, Felix. We’ll fix this somehow,” Alexius murmured, rocking his grown son as if he were a baby.

            Dorian looked around at the spilled bowls and crushed grapes and the blood and the forgotten body, then at his mentor; Alexius was powerless to stop Felix’s illness, and Felix was powerless to reassure his father. There was so much to fix. Where did one begin?


	5. Four of Pentacles

_Chapter 5: Four of Pentacles_

 

            Felix was resting in his bed, propped up on bolsters and pillows and looking pale. He waved when he saw Dorian in the doorway. “See? My illness is good for something,” he said.

            Dorian entered and sat on the bench by his friend’s side. “Don’t joke like that,” he said. “I’d have managed.”

            “You’re barely holding on as it is,” Felix said, fixing his glassy eyes on Dorian. “I didn’t tell you what last night was because you’d have tried to be too confident.”

            “It was a dinner party with sacrificial rituals for dessert,” Dorian said in a measured voice.

            “Urathus and Eremond are part of a subset of Tevinter mage culture called the Venatori,” Felix said after looking to be sure no one was around. Dorian understood and went to close the door, and sealed it with privacy and silencing wards. They wouldn’t do much in a house full of mages, but it would give them warning that it was not longer safe to converse. “They’re supremacists who believe that it’s their purpose to rule over all as gods.”

            “Oh. So a stereotypical Tevinter mage,” Dorian said jokingly, even as his stomach turned. “That doesn’t sound so different from most any other Altus or Magister.”

            Felix sighed and furrowed his brow as another spasm of pain wracked him. “So far. But there are whispers. My father talks about what he could do if he had enough power. They all do, really. And yes,” he said when Dorian took a deep breath to make another comment, “like any other mage in the Imperium. But I think this could be more.”

            “So you father is mentoring me because he wants me to join his little cult,” Dorian said. “And here I thought he was just attracted to my phenomenal talents and dashing looks.”

            Felix did smile at that. “Don’t flatter yourself too much, Dorian,” he joked. “But in all seriousness. He does find your talent fascinating, and you’re on the rise in the Imperium. If he were the one to bring you into the Venatori fold? You know how we mages like our trophies.”

            Dorian nodded. “Only too well. Are you one of them?” he asked. “A Venatori.”

            “Of course. Honestly, I was surprised your family isn’t.”

            “Me too, now that you mention it,” Dorian said. “Supremacy is sort of my father’s thing. But so is isolation, come to think of it. He labors under the idea that he’s so much better than everyone else, that he doesn’t deign to join anyone or anything.”

            “You know your father well,” Felix said. “That’s what everyone says about him.” They both laughed. Felix reached out and touched Dorian’s arm with a pale hand. “You are closer to me than a brother, Dorian,” he said. “And I’d be honored to call you a Venatori brother as well. But you need to make your own choices for yourself, and not for what anyone else wants for you.”

            “Felix… are you dying?” Dorian asked, concerned.

            Felix chuckled. “Of course. We all are; some of us sooner and more quickly than others. Why do you ask?”

            “Because in every dirty Nevarran romance novel I’ve ever read, a dying person is suddenly full of sappy as shit philosophy about life.” Dorian smiled and dodged Felix’s weak slap.

            “Vishante kaffas, Dorian,” Felix said, but he was smiling. “Get out. And don’t come back unless you’ve found a copy of a dirty Nevarran romance to read to me.”

 ***

            “Tell me about time, Dorian.” Alexius sat across the table from Dorian, leaning back in his chair.

            Dorian surveyed the game board. His pieces were in good position, and Alexius looked like he had a poor defense, but one wrong move and Dorian would lose a significant piece. He moved a pawn in the way of Alexius’s chancellor, sacrificing it as easily as Alexius sacrificed slaves. He wished there was less at stake with this sacrifice, but unfortunately that was never the case. “We move through it,” he said. “We move across it.”

            “And how is time presented in the books?” Alexius asked, his hand hovering over his pieces.

            “As a timeline,” Dorian said. “From point A to point B.”

            “And that is where they’re wrong,” Alexius said, making his move. Dorian saw that Alexius thought he’d be safe, but in two moves Dorian could corner a key piece, so he kept his expression respectfully interested. Actually, he was. Felix was recovering from his last bout of illness, and Alexius had calmed enough to return to his research and was just now starting to share his ideas with Dorian. “Look.” He took a cloth napkin from a stack at the end of the table, and dipped a quill in the ink. “Here are two points on a line.” He marked them. “Now, if I did this on wood or metal, they would be fixed, like the timeline the scholars speak of.”

            Dorian pulled the napkin closer. The points were fixed on the fabric. But the fabric moved. He made a fold in it, then another, each fold bringing the points closer together. “Fabric can be manipulated,” he said and made the first move to trap Alexius.

            “Yes.” Alexius was excited now, to the point he made a hasty move that left himself exposed on two sides. “Point A is no longer one end of the line, and the line is not a line. Point B is not another end. They are moments that exist. If you can manipulate the fabric, you manipulate the points.”

            _And manipulate time_ , Dorian thought. He saw Alexius’s excitement, how earnest he was in his belief, and realized that just maybe he’d already started work on these things. A mage who could manipulate time could be all-powerful. And terrifying: absolutely terrifying. There would be no objective reality; it would be like the Fade, where things were constantly shifting in time and space. Anyone who could manipulate time could manipulate people and could manipulate the very fabric of reality into getting what they wanted, when they wanted it.

            Dorian swallowed and made a move that would not trap Alexius, and would possibly cost him the game. “That would be useful,” he said. It was an understatement bigger than the Grand Proving Grounds in Minrathous.

            Of course Alexius won the game; but Dorian figured that when he had that manic, almost desperate look on his face, it was better to let him win than find out what happened if he lost.

 ***

            Dorian never thought he’d be glad to go home, but when the high holidays drew near he began to long to return to Qarinus. He would have preferred Vyrantium, but that wasn’t an option yet. He still felt leashed to his position of privilege, and was still a month away from coming of age. That was another issue. Halward and Aquinea were certain to throw a grand ball in his honor, and the very last thing he wanted was to be the center of attention in a society he was starting to despise.

            “You’re certain you won’t stay with us for the holidays?” Alexius asked. “Our family is small, but we have a wonderful celebration.”

            _Full of sacrifices and blood; some celebration,_ Dorian thought, but his smile was bright. “Thank you for the invitation; but my parents have been writing nonstop, and I fear that if I don’t go home of my own volition, my mother will show up and drag me home by my ear.” At least that wasn’t a lie.

            Felix was up and walking around again a few days later, and he sat out in the gardens while Dorian waited for a coach from his parents. “I wish you were staying,” Felix said. He handed Dorian an orange from the trees in the gardens. “My father’s been happier since you’ve been here.”

            “He’s teaching me some very advanced subject matter; I’m grateful for the opportunity,” Dorian said.

            “Just for the opportunity to study?” Felix asked. He looked a bit sad. “You’re like my brother, Dorian. You know how rare that is amongst our kind.”

            “I do.” Dorian sighed and ran a hand through his wavy hair. “I’m glad I’m a credit to your father, and I’m glad you think so highly of me,” he said. “You’ve become quite dear to me as well,” he said, turning his eyes away from Felix and fiddling with the orange in his hands. “It’s lonely growing up in Tevinter, isn’t it,” he said with a sigh.

            “Because our parents are too busy being all mighty Magisters to remember to reproduce more than once,” Felix joked. “Dorian, please, smile. You used to smile.” He scooted closer to Dorian. “It will be Satinalia; and if there’s any time worth smiling, it’s then.”

            Felix was so earnest and there was concern in his voice and Dorian couldn’t help but smile even though he felt tired and conflicted. “Fine. But only because you requested so nicely,” he told Felix. “What would you do if I didn’t come back?” he asked after a moment of silence.

            “You mean stayed in Qarinus? Or went back to Vyrantium?” Dorian nodded. “I’d be disappointed, of course,” Felix said. He rested a hand on Dorian’s thigh and Dorian tensed. “I’ve grown used to having you around. But you need to help yourself, too, and I would understand.”

            Dorian hesitated before resting his hand on Felix’s. He couldn’t look at him, for fear of what he’d see. But Felix turned his hand over under Dorian’s, and clasped it. “Thank you, Felix,” Dorian said, finally glancing at Felix. “I’ll let you know what I decide. Please don’t tell your father that we’ve spoken of this?” he asked.

            “Of course,” Felix said. They stared at one another for along moment, quiet but for the trilling birds in the gardens. “Take care, Dorian,” Felix said at last, getting up to leave Dorian alone to wait for his coach.

            Left alone, Dorian rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. He’d just thought about potentially leaving when Felix had sat down with him. But his father would never hear of it, and Alexius was powerful enough even without his powerful friends. There had to be a way out, something Dorian wasn’t seeing. He tried to picture his life like a chess board; but his opponent was the whole of the Tevinter Imperium. How could he hope to win against _that?_

            He’d hoped to sleep on the long ride between Minrathous and Qarinus, but his thoughts kept him awake. He stared at the folds in his robes and wondered what Alexius would hope to use time manipulation magic for. And then he spied the orange on the seat next to him and he felt a twinge in his chest. Of course, Felix. But if he went back in time to prevent the attack that had left Felix ill, what would that mean for others with whom Alexius had interacted? What would it mean for Dorian?

            It all made his head throb.

            He didn’t think he would be as happy to see home as he was. The Pavus estate sprawled over the countryside, encompassing a grove of citrus trees, a stable filled with horses with bloodlines as old as Dorian’s, and a view to the harbor. His chest swelled and he almost felt giddy. When the carriage pulled up, the slaves formed two lines, and Halward and Aquinea Pavus walked through the lines to meet Dorian.

            Dorian wanted to leap out of the carriage and throw himself at his mother, but he was seventeen, too old and too well-bred for such behavior. So he stiffly climbed out of the carriage, adjusted his robes, and bowed deeply. “Dorian,” his mother said, approaching him and taking him by the shoulders. She held him at arms’ length; he was quite a bit taller now than she was, and she looked up to meet his gray eyes. “You’ve grown, my son. You seemed like such a little boy when you left for Vyrantium, and now I hardly recognize you.”

            “You mean I’m not still a little boy?” Dorian asked her. “May I have a scribe copy that down, so I can use it against you the next time you insist on treating me like one?” But he was smiling, and finally broke ceremony to give her a hug. Then he looked up and saw his father standing a couple feet away. “Father. I’m pleased to be home,” he said.

            Halward surveyed Dorian until he felt like a child once again, even after what his mother had said. But at last his father nodded in greeting and offered his hand. Dorian took it and they clasped hands for a brief moment before heading inside.

            His mother had redone the house yet again, though Dorian hardly remembered what it had looked like from before he’d left home. His rooms were in the same location, but they’d been redone as well; they may as well have been guest suites, though Aquinea insisted that Dorian would grow to love what she’d done. “Why bother?” he asked. “You’ll just change it again when I leave.”

            “You’re too cynical, my son,” she said. “We’ll have the slaves bring your things in, and then there’s an appointment with the tailor. For your coming of age robes,” she said in response to Dorian’s blank look. “The invitations went out last week and replies are pouring in.”

            Dorian ignored the way his chest tightened up, ignored the tingling in his legs that made him want to run away. “It will be an event to remember,” he said with a bright smile that made his mother beam.

            He found his father in the library, surrounded by books and scrolls, likely studying a piece of legislation that had come up in the last Magisterium session. “Dorian,” he said. “Come in. Tell me about your time with Alexius. What’s he been studying?” Halward asked, setting aside his quill.

            “I didn’t want to bother you while you were working,” Dorian said.

            “No worries. This can wait. What has he taught you?”

            Dorian didn’t know where to begin. And he didn’t know if he even trusted his father enough to tell him. Everything Alexius was researching was perfectly legal under the Magisterium’s rules, and yet it chafed at Dorian’s sensibilities like rough spun southern cloth might chafe his skin. “He’s looking at time manipulation,” he finally said when he could think of no other half-truth, and his father’s expectant stare made his skin crawl.

            Halward laughed. “He would be. Of course… what Magister wouldn’t? The idea of controlling time? Can you imagine going back with the knowledge you have, and changing the course of history?”

            “All in the Imperium’s favor, I’d assume?” Dorian asked.

            “We’d be the most powerful nation in Thedas,” his father pointed out.

            “Father. We still are,” Dorian said with a grin. It felt good to have these sorts of conversations, where there were no expectations, no trying to impress; just a father and son, joking around.

            Talk turned to Dorian’s impressions of the Magisterium so far, and how he found Minrathous. “I also hear you met Urathus’s daughters,” Halward said casually. “Lady Titania showed quite an interest in you.”

            “She was a lovely and well-bred young lady,” Dorian said, careful not to wince visibly. He knew the topic was bound to come up sooner rather than later. “She is a credit to the Urathus house,” he added. “Father. What else do you want me to say?” Dorian asked, when Halward kept staring him down. “We had dinner. We ate grapes. We lounged around and… talked about the Fade and demons,” he said, the memory of that night still uncomfortably vivid in his mind.

            “Did you think to arrange for another time to see her?”

            “No! I… I’ve been so overwhelmed with the new things I’m learning from Alexius, and from learning my way around Minrathous. It’s been a lot to take in,” he said. He felt his cheeks flaming under his father’s scrutiny.

            Halward stared at him for a very long, uncomfortable time. Dorian felt paralyzed, and as if everything about him was being laid bare before his father. He tried to keep his mind clear and his face blank. As far as he knew his father had always eschewed blood magic, despite the powers it granted him. But for all Dorian knew right now, Halward had sacrificed a slave in hopes of reading his son’s mind. Nothing would surprise him after what he’d seen lately.

            “I’m glad the apprenticeship with Alexius is working out well,” he finally said. “It’s exposing you to areas of society you’d probably avoid otherwise.”

            _Like women?_ Dorian thought, but said nothing. It wouldn’t end well, and contrary to popular opinion, he did know when to keep his mouth shut.

            Luckily his family was too busy with the holiday preparations to focus too much on him, and he spent much time sneaking out to the orchards to avoid his parents and their slaves. He’d so looked forward to being way from Alexius’s careful watch, but now he felt like a stranger in his own home and didn’t belong here, either.

            The morning of Satinalia dawned cloudy, but the bright northern sun slowly broke through the cloud cover as the day wore on. The slaves had decorated the estate with bright, festive colors, so different from the usual somber shades most Tevinters chose. Today each of the slaves wore garish masks, a mockery of those worn by Orlesian nobles, and brightly colored clothing. They were far more props than people, though, and while he’d usually enjoyed Satinalia as a child, Dorian wasn’t sure what to make of it now. After seeing how easily Alexius had killed Charmion, just to bind a Desire Demon for a little fun, Dorian couldn’t help but question the place of slaves in his homeland.

            As was the custom, today the King of Fools would be chosen, and the parties would rotate from noble house to noble house throughout the week. Tonight would be the party at Maevaris Tilani’s; the Pavus party would be later in the week, and would run into Dorian’s name day and coming of age celebration later in the month of Umbralis.

            “It’s customary for a Tevinter man of your breeding and reputation to at least be in an arrangement by eighteen,” his mother said one morning in the middle of the week, as he stood stiff and straight for the Antivan tailor who had been brought in.

            Dorian sighed and winced when the man pricked him yet again with a pin. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he was a blood mage. “Really?” he asked. “I wasn’t aware of our customs in the slightest. Thank you for bringing that to my attention.”

            “Dorian, darling, must you be so disagreeable?” his mother asked. “You are the envy of the Magisterium, but the way you neglect your duty to your family… it raises questions,” she said, averting her eyes.

            He snorted. “What sorts of questions?” he asked. He’d heard the whispers too; it was impossible to be deaf to them while living with a Magister in Minrathous. But his mother remained quiet, instead watching the tailor measure and pin, drape and pin some more. “And you wonder why I don’t write,” he said, instead looking at himself in the mirror. No, he didn’t hate what he saw, not yet.

            “I didn’t love your father,” she said at long last. “But I loved my family, and I was willing to do my duty to them. Sometimes I still don’t think I love Halward, but I do love you, and love my duty to you as your mother.”

            It wasn’t surprising to hear her confess that she didn’t love Dorian’s father. He’d be surprised if many couples in the Altus echelon did love one another. “We don’t ask you to marry for love, Dorian; at least, not for the love of your bride. But for the love of your family and the Pavus legacy.”

            “Maybe there’s more to life than the legacy,” he ventured. It was a stupid thing to say, stuck with pins as he was, and his mother staring at him in stony horror.

            “Has living with Alexius taught you nothing?” she asked, her voice breaking and her eyes filling with tears. “His son is _dying_ , Dorian. His wife is _dead_. Felix was like you, planned to perfection, the glory of the Alexius house, and now Magister Gereon has nothing to look forward to. His line will die with Felix. Would you do that to your father? To me?” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and as much as Dorian wanted to say _yes!_ He couldn’t bear it.

            He sighed. “I apologize, mother,” he muttered. He sighed and straightened up, to the relief of the irritated tailor. Aquinea Pavus gave her son a long, sorrowful look before leaving. Dorian closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at himself right now. He’d not agreed to his mother’s unspoken request, but he’d not denied it, either. It kept the peace in the family, but it made him feel dirty.

            Every party that week he danced with any willing young woman—and there were plenty. He put on such a show that his father was bound to be pleased, and maybe leave him alone. Dorian knew each dance perfectly; he’d always been light and graceful, and dancing was little different from spellcasting, when you got down to it. And he did cast a spell, enough that when they returned home each night his father was actually smiling. _It’s a test, like everything else in Tevinter,_ he thought when he tried to fall asleep each night. _I just have to pass this next test. Then the one after that. I can do this._

            However, his desire to fit in drew the attentions of the Fade denizens, and when he slept and wandered in that wavering wasteland, he felt the demonic influences on the edges of his subconscious.

            “So what _do_ you want, Dorian?” Ophelia asked one night. “Do you want to fit in? Or do you want your true desire?” She morphed, face, body, voice and all into the shape of Lepidus. Even though Dorian hadn’t seen the slave in months, he still melted at the sight of him and had to hold tightly to his grip on reality. Ophelia had even gotten down the wide, liquid dark eyes, staring at Dorian. No, more-- _into_ him.

            He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. All around him he felt the Fade spirits about which he’d spent time learning and understanding, and their presence gave him comfort. “What I really want is for you to leave me alone. Good night, Ophelia.”

            “You’re never any fun, Dorian,” the demon pouted, morphing into her true form, which held no interest for him. “Maybe you’d like my brother more?” she teased.

            “Leave me be,” he said with willpower he didn’t know he possessed. He pulled himself up and out of the Fade, and after a moment he was staring at the moonlight filtering through the sheers on the windows. He had to go somewhere, anywhere other than here or Minrathous. He feared above all else that some night he was going to be so desperate that he would give in to Ophelia’s cunning demands. He would become worse than a blood mage: he’d become an abomination. Whether it was Felix or Lepidus, or any other young man; or whether it was the prospect of fitting neatly into Tevinter society, no temptation was worth becoming _that_.


	6. The Moon

_Chapter 6: The Moon_

 

            Every day for the remainder of the holidays, Dorian swore he would not go back to Alexius, and yet somehow he ended up there. Then, every day for two years he debated running, and each morning he woke up in his bright rooms in the Alexius household in Minrathous; each day he talked time magic, necromancy, and spirits of the Fade with his mentor. He walked the twisting recesses of the Fade with Alexius, sometimes with Felix, and always with fear.

            When he’d turned eighteen, his father had allowed him a respite from the marriage arrangement, “for time to study,” Halward had said in public, to the disappointment of many Altus families with eligible daughters. Privately he’d said, “Get your mind right, Dorian. You will not continue to defy me.” The problem was his head _was_ on right; and in Dorian’s mind, it was the rest of Tevinter that was wrong.

            One day shortly after his twentieth name day a courier in House Pavus livery arrived, bearing a sealed scroll for Dorian. “What is it?” Felix asked, sidling up beside Dorian and resting a hand on his shoulder.

            “It can’t be anything good.” Dorian broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. “ _Venhedis_ ,” he swore. “ _Fasta vass!”_ He threw the scroll across the room; it bounced off a window seat and landed on the floor in a twisted heap.

            “Dorian, please!” Felix said, grabbing him by the shoulders and refusing to let go even when Dorian tried to pull away. He pulled Dorian into a hug and Dorian felt the iron band around his ribs, the choking lump in his throat, the heat in his cheeks and behind his eyes… and then he was shuddering in Felix’s embrace while his friend rubbed his back and whispered calming nonsense to him in Tevene. “Are you ready to tell me?” Felix asked, holding Dorian at arms’ length.

            Dorian blinked away his tears of anger and desperation. “Aurelia Velarias,” he said. “My father’s gone and done it and arranged for me to marry Aurelia Velarias.”

            “I’m so sorry,” Felix said, gathering Dorian into a hug again. Dorian was grateful, even if he was a bit afraid Alexius would walk in at any moment. He’d never told Felix about his preferences, and yet Felix just knew and never said anything about it. To Felix, he was just Dorian. “What will you do?”

            Dorian sighed. “What I have to do,” he said. “Meet her family, put on a smile, agree to the bargain.” He forced a smile. “We do our duty or we die.”

            “ _Na via lerno victoria,”_ Felix said sadly. “Almost makes me glad I’m dying.”

            Dorian wished he could tell Felix exactly what he was planning, what he had been planning for the last two years. Hiding a secret like this from his best friend was even harder than hiding his preference for men from his father and the whole of Tevinter society. But he would not put Felix in any more of an awkward position. He’d been expecting the arrangement to be official long before now, but seeing it in writing made it a grim reality.

            He waited until it was long past midnight, assuring Felix that he would sleep well and worry about things in the morning, and something about Dorian’s smile must have convinced Felix. Lying was hard, but knowingly dragging Felix into this would be even harder.

            Silencing wards guarded his steps as he stole from the house and into the quiet streets of Minrathous. He walked quickly but proudly; cowed individuals made for easy targets. He kept walking and it seemed the city would never end, but soon he came to the southern gate of Minrathous and slipped the guards some gold to be let out. He left the sizzling streetlamps behind, allowing his eyes to adjust to the moonlight on the road. He walked for hours and realized how ill-conceived this plan was, and just how out of shape he was. He’d never _needed_ to walk like this before.

            He didn’t want to think what would happen when he needed to truly run.

            It only took a day for the novelty of his flight to wear off. As the days went by Dorian kept a low profile, spending long, nervous nights in cheap rooms in roadside inns; walking long miles each day with only his thoughts to entertain him; and with his stomach growling incessantly. In short, the opposite of everything he’d ever known in his life. He kept moving ever south, heading for Orlais. He’d never left Tevinter before; there had never been any need to. Right now he just needed to cross the border. Then he’d figure out what to do next.

            He paid a passing farmer for a ride south in his wagon, doing his best to quell his magic. The man was clearly soporati, mundane; but it wouldn’t do for him to remember giving a lift to a mage. Dorian said little, knowing full well that his speech would instantly give him away as an Altus, as well.

            It took a week to get to Asariel, halfway between Minrathous and Vyrantium, and Dorian ached to go back to the Circle where his life had been so much simpler. But they would look for him there, so he kept walking.

            When he reached the Orlesian border nearly ten days since leaving, Dorian was disappointed at how unimpressive it was: a few tired guards in Orelsian heraldry, an ornate but useless fort, and a few garishly painted statues on either side of the road. Still, it meant freedom for him. For the most part, that was. Orlais was southern territory, and that meant templars. He’d heard that most Tevinters enjoyed safety by virtue of their Imperium birthrights, but still he needed to be careful.

            The first thing Dorian did when he’d set up in a small inn in a tiny village just over the border was take a bath. He didn’t realize how much he ached, how badly he smelled, how exhausted he felt. But it felt good, too. It felt like he’d finally done something for himself rather than waiting for things to be decided for him. He slept well that night, the best he had in quite some time. He even managed to stay out of the Fade, and woke feeling far more refreshed.

            There was no hurry now. No agenda, no studies, no parties or games of chess that were so much more than just games. It was just Dorian in his tiny room, not far from the Imperium, but still just far enough.

            “The girls here keep looking at you,” the pretty little barmaid said to him two days later. “You’re not looking back. They’re absolutely beside themselves,” she said, leaning on the bar, displaying a fair amount of milky cleavage. She didn’t wear a mask, and her accent wasn’t quite Orlesian. Possibly some soporati Tevinter, or maybe a little Nevarran?

            Dorian glanced around. The inn, he’d learned quickly, doubled as the local brothel for soldiers on guard at the border crossing. Several young women, and a few older ones as well, stood around the room. The inn seemed to be a good stopping-off place between Orlais and Tevinter, which made him nervous, but he wasn’t under Imperium law now. And he’d heard that certain things in Orlais were less frowned upon than they were at home.

            “They are lovely ladies,” he said. “Any one of them is a gem. Though not to my… personal liking,” he said, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

            She glanced down at her ample bosom on display. “I see,” she said with a smile. “Luckily I can take care of that as well. Human or elf? Half? Does it matter?” she asked. “Young or old?”

            “Truly, I’ve never had so many options before,” he said with a grin, playing it smooth even though it was true.

            “If you have coin, I’ll show you,” she said with a grin, but making it clear that he was going to have to pay if he even wanted a look.

            Dorian dug into his purse and dropped a few Imperial sovereigns in front of her. “I have coin, my dear,” he said. “And I would be most grateful if you’d show me who you have.”

            As it turned out three Imperial sovereigns got him a handsome and flexible elf named Cacelma, who gave Dorian a night he couldn’t have even hoped for in Minrathous, and would probably give Ophelia plenty to torment him with later on. He didn’t care. It had been so long since Dorian had felt like himself. “Thank you,” he said softly after they were finished.

            “You paid me,” Cacelma said, lying naked beside him. His blue eyes surveyed Dorian. “You ever go this far before?”

            Dorian shook his head. “It was that obvious?” he asked with an embarrassed smile.

            “I get lots of first timers,” the elf said with a shrug. “Can I do anything else for you?”

            “If I say yes every time you ask me that, I may well be out of coin within a day or so,” Dorian teased. He rolled over and stole one last kiss, then watched the elf dress himself and walk out of the room, hips swaying slightly. Dorian sighed and sprawled in the tangled sheets. They were rougher than anything he’d ever slept on and yet he was more comfortable and relaxed than in any bed in Minrathous.

            Dorian began spending more time down in the bar, talking with Imogen, who as it turned out was from Nevarra and had quite a few good stories to tell, and who even uncorked a bottle of Tevinter red for him one night. “You’re not like most Vints,” she said, watching him sip. “And don’t try to tell me you’re not a Vint. You couldn’t be more of a Vint,” she said with a giggle. “No Orlesian would drink that wine that slowly.”

            “Orlesians’ ideas of taste are a pale imitation of Tevinter’s,” Dorian said with a smile. “So it was the wine that gave me away? Not my stunning northern looks or ridiculously self-important arrogance?” His grin spread and he held out his wine glass for more.

            “All of the above,” Imogen said. “Do you do magic, too?”

            “I’m Tevinter, my dear,” Dorian said with a shrug. He conjured up a trio of small wisps and juggled them. Imogen giggled; he waved them away to circle around her head. “We’re full of tricks,” he said.

            “I know. Cacelma told me,” she said with a wink that made Dorian’s focus falter, which was embarrassing; he’d been able to conjure and control wisps without even thinking since he was a small child. “And don’t look now, but I think you’re catching the eye of the new guy.” She jutted her chin in the direction of a table to Dorian’s left. He glimpsed a man his age, possibly a bit older, with pale southerner skin and a mop of wavy golden hair. “He’s looking at you. He seems quite interested,” she said, smiling and biting on her lip in excitement.

            Dorian looked down at the scuffed bar counter. “Send over a glass of the Tevinter red,” he said at last without looking up. His pulse pounded in his ears, but after his tryst with Cacelma, and half a bottle of red wine, he was feeling bold. Imogen nodded and poured a glass, then walked it over to the man. Dorian tried to watch them without really watching, something that seemed to happen a lot in dirty Nevarran romance novels, but was harder in reality.

            Imogen was over for a long time, and when she returned she handed Dorian a small scrap of parchment. He unrolled it. “Laertes. Meet me for a drink,” he read, and looked up at the man in the corner. He was smiling. Dorian returned the grin, glanced at Imogen, then headed over.

            “Laertes?” Dorian asked. “Is that Nevarran?” he asked, taking a seat at the table and folding his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking.

            “It’s whatever you’d like it to be,” Laertes said. His curly blond hair flopped over his forehead. He wore a loose white chemise, open slightly at the neck, and fitted breeches with dirty riding boots. “Just passing through?”

            Dorian shrugged. “Unless I find a reason to stay.”

            Laertes gave him a lopsided grin. “You’re a Vint. What are you doing so far from home?” he asked.

            “Finding fame, fortune, and adventure,” Dorian said. “Though I’ve had little luck with the first two. As for the adventure, walking is quite adventurous to us Vints. Especially anything further than the next room over. Walking down the street is practically scandalous,” he added, and Laertes laughed.

            “I saw you doing that wisp thing to the barmaid,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of being a mage in Orlais? That someone might see you?”

            Dorian shrugged. “I’m Tevinter. They won’t do anything,” he said. “We’re not bound by the same rules as these southern mages.”

            Laertes nodded thoughtfully. “True.”

            Dorian sighed. “Can we pretend, at least for the time being, that I’m not Tevinter, and just enjoy one another’s company? Can you play chess?” he asked. It felt nice to talk with someone again, someone more… his sort. He didn’t realize just how much he missed having Felix around, and felt a pang of regret when he thought of what Felix was doing at this moment. Or if he was even still alive.

            Dorian brushed the thought aside. Felix would be the first to tell him to think about himself. So he did.

            Laertes did play chess, as it turned out, and he was a good opponent. Dorian enjoyed the game far more than he ever had before, because it wasn’t a visual metaphor for everything happening around him in the Imperium. It was just a game, and Laertes actually beat him once. Between games Laertes got the drinks, insisting that it was his treat. By the end, they were both laughing, and Dorian was more than a bit drunk. He stood and swayed a little bit, instinctively grabbing Laertes’s shoulder for balance. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away, but Laertes had grabbed hold.

            “Don’t be,” he said with a half smile that made Dorian slightly giddy. His hand was warm on Dorian’s, and he squeezed it. “If you’re not busy later this evening, feel free to come to my rooms,” he said in a low voice. He trailed on hand down Dorian’s chest and grinned even more widely when he glanced down and saw Dorian standing to, pressing against his breeches. “Even if you are busy, you should probably come to see me,” he said, and turned to leave.

            Laertes’s attentions made Dorian delirious. Cacelma had been wonderful, but he was a whore, paid for this sort of thing. Lepidus was gone, Felix was off limits, and Dorian wasn’t sure where either them stood with regards to this anyway. But Laertes? A dashing stranger, offering Dorian a night with him?

            Dorian headed to the bar without stumbling, a trick he’d picked up after many a ball, dinner, or house party back home, and one he was quite proud of. “Thank you,” he said to Imogen, leaving her another Imperial sovereign on the counter.

            She looked at him, almost sadly. “Don’t thank me yet, Vinty,” she said, but she took the money anyway.


	7. The Emperor

_Chapter 7: The Emperor_

 

            The last thing Dorian remembered was a feeling of the air being sucked out of his lungs and the light being sucked from the air around him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand; all he could do was collapse on the ground and claw madly at the Fade, which was just out of his reach, tantalizing him with a quickly dissipating pale green light. And then it was gone, and he’d not been able to touch it again.

            This whole thing would be a bad dream, if he’d been able to dream. As it was, it had to have been at least a day or two since he’d lost his connection to the Fade, and hence to his magic: anything that had given him power and status had been reduced to nothing. He felt groggy and helpless.

            Every jolt of the wooden cart made his head throb. It still felt like he couldn’t breathe, but maybe that was less the cutoff from the Fade, and more the burlap hood over his head. His neck was stiff and his arms cramped behind his back. Every time he tried to move his hands or twist his arms the manacles burned his wrists. Every time he tried to move his legs the shackles seared into his ankles.

            He’d never hurt so badly before.

            He groaned as he fumbled toward consciousness, still trying to comprehend what had happened. He was a Tevinter mage, more powerful at his age than most in the Magisterium were after a lifetime of study. And he was trussed up in the back of a wooden cart like a roast.

            The cart kept moving, the horse trotting over rocky ground. Each bump hurt all over, stabbing into his head and burning into his arms and legs and he gave a muffled groan and struggled to move out of his cramped position. There it was again: the feeling of being punched in the stomach without actually being punched. It made him curl into a ball, in spite of the burning in his limbs, and whimper at the breathless pain it caused. Even if he had not been gagged he wouldn’t have been able to ask any questions, thanks to the intensity of the pain.

            Minutes… hours… time was meaningless, and without the Fade Dorian was painfully conscious of everything. It was excruciating. Right about now he probably could have been persuaded to listen to any of Ophelia’s offers. Maybe he dozed here and there, but without dreams he wasn’t sure. It was always the clop, clop, clop of the hooves, the creak of the wagon bench, the rustle of wind.

            Finally the cart stopped. He stayed curled in a ball, remaining as still as possible, but his captor grabbed his chains and dragged him off the bed of the cart. Dorian had the sensation of falling briefly before the person dropped him on the ground and pushed him into an upright position. “Will you behave?” a voice asked.

            Fucking Laertes. Dorian should have known it was too good to be true. But what choice did he have? He nodded, and Laertes pulled the hood off his head. Dorian squinted at him in the light of a setting sun. Laertes pulled out a mallet and Dorian’s eyes widened. “Don’t worry, Vint,” he said. “I’m under strict orders not to hurt you. Make you uncomfortable? Sure. Hurt you? Unfortunately not.” He ran a length of chain from Dorian’s manacles to a stake and used the mallet to pound it into the ground. Dorian just stared, confused. “The pay is good. Best I’ve ever had, so I’ll follow the terms. Though fucking with a Vint may be the most fun I’ll ever have in this career.”

            Out here on the road Laertes didn’t look nearly as handsome, and Dorian realized his playful and cultured accent had been affected for his benefit to lure him in. He cursed himself for being so careless. Now he didn’t even know where he was, where he was going, or what sort of career made “fucking with a Vint” enjoyable.

            Laertes built a fire and set a small pot over it to heat. He added a chunk of meat to the pot, and some herbs and root vegetables and soon it began to smell so good that Dorian thought he’d die from the pain in his stomach. Laertes also set on a small travel kettle to boil. He periodically looked up at Dorian, who must have looked pathetic staring at him, and he finally sighed.

            Dorian shrunk away when Laertes approached, but the other man simply reached behind him and undid the knot keeping the gag in place. “If you yell I will smite you from here to Ferelden,” Laertes said. Dorian spit it out and shuddered. He coughed and his jaw ached, and it took a moment to find his raspy voice. “Is this how all of your first dates go?” he asked. Laertes just shook his head and went back to working on the food. “I suppose your name isn’t even Laertes.”

            “Oh, it is. Ser Laertes.”

            “It’s now chivalrous for knights to kidnap Tevinter mages?”

            Laertes smiled. “You’re pretty sheltered for having grown up so high and mighty,” he said. Dorian must have looked offended, because he said, “You’ve never met a templar before, have you.”

            “A mage hunter?” Dorian asked before he could stop himself from saying anything stupid.

            Laertes hit him with another smite, but not quite as hard as the last time. Dorian stifled his cry of agony as the air was sucked from his lungs and his body seized up; it was like he had nothing left to give. His wrists burned. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasped, tears in his eyes. He craned his neck to try and see his hands behind him. “Maker’s testicles. This fucking _hurts_ ,” he said, unable to do much more than wince and laugh at the absurdity. “What is it?”

            “Lyrium shackles,” Laertes said. “Helpful for when I’m driving the cart or sleeping, and can’t be constantly casting a cleanse or smite on you. The lyrium folded into the metal leeches your mana out. Keeps you from going into the Fade or pulling some demon out of your arse.”

            “Beg pardon, but my arse is demon free,” Dorian said with a wry smile.

            “Yeah, that’s what they all say, and then you get something like what happened in the Ferelden Circle a few years back,” Laertes said, his voice dripping with venom. “I’d rather not take any chances.” He stirred the pot once more and then undid the shackles for a moment to move Dorian’s hands in front, before locking them on again. It happened so quickly that Dorian didn’t have a chance to try anything; but then again, he feared another smiting so much that he was afraid to.

            Laertes spooned some stew into a bowl and set it down next to Dorian. It took some time for Dorian to get the feeling back in his hands. His wrists were raw and swollen, blistered and bleeding, and the chains pulsed with a pale blue-white glow. His hands felt heavy and it hurt to move, but his stomach ached so he steeled himself against the pain and ate. “I don’t suppose it’s too much to ask you to allow me to relieve myself?” he asked after. Whatever dignity he still possessed was rapidly fading away. Besides, for all he knew, Laertes was going to sell him into slavery; make a quick handful of sovereigns off a high-born mage, or something. But Dorian still had his birthright amulet on, and all of his effects were neatly piled in the cart. He didn’t know what to make of any of it.

            When he returned Laertes staked him back to the ground and tossed a tattered blanket at him. Dorian tried to catch it and it just fell a few feet away. “We mages aren’t exactly trained to be athletic. Just thought you’d like to know,” he said, tears leaking from his eyes as he had to reach for the blanket with his bound hands. “What’s that? Tea?” he asked when Laertes handed him a tin cup. Laertes watched wordlessly and Dorian sipped. It was bitter, and it dulled his senses even more than the lyrium chains.

            “Templar Piss,” Laertes said at last, and Dorian snorted. The drink burned as it came out his nose and his eyes watered while he coughed. Laertes was laughing, and Dorian glared at him, thoroughly humiliated. “Magebane tea,” Laertes said, shaking his head. “But some mages in the Spire started calling it Templar Piss, and the name stuck. It fits.”

            “Fuck you,” Dorian said, dropping the cup and lying down on the bare ground, turning his back on Laertes and trying to sleep.

 

* * *

 

            Days and nights ran into one another and Dorian hardly knew which way was up after a while. The magebane tea, the lyrium shackles, and the regular magic cleansing spells left him feeling groggy and drugged and after a time he wasn’t sure he felt the burning of the chains. During the days he was blindfolded in the back of the cart, unable to see the sun and know which direction they were going. At night Laertes fed him and allowed him to see to his needs; and after about a week of this Laertes didn’t even bother to secure Dorian to anything when it was time to sleep. Dorian was simply too weak to try anything.

            “Where are we?” he mumbled, clutching the blanket to him and shivering, though unsure if it was from the night air or the effects of so much magebane. The substance wasn’t outlawed in Tevinter, but it was extremely hard to come by for many reasons and now he knew why. He thought this might be what dying felt like.

            “Northern Nevarra.” Laertes handed him a wineskin, but Dorian shook his head. “It’s Tevinter red, too,” he said, taking a swig. It showed how truly miserable Dorian was that even that didn’t perk him up. Laertes passed a bowl of some sort of porridge, but Dorian just turned away. “You’d better not starve to death,” Laertes said. “I’m supposed to deliver you alive. If you die I don’t get paid.”

            “Lovely, I’m a fucking templar’s paycheck now,” Dorian said.

            Laertes laughed. “You didn’t think I actually _liked_ you, did you?” he asked.

            “Oh, no. I _knew_ you didn’t like me,” Dorian said, somehow managing a groggy grin. “Who is paying you, anyway?”

            “You’ll find out. Soon, too. We’re likely crossing into Tevinter in the morning.”

            It made Dorian even more nauseous than he already was, and he propped himself up slightly as he dry heaved. Tevinter. He was being dragged back home in chains by a templar. What a sick joke.

            But he was too tired and broken to care much more than that.

            He thought he would feel it when he crossed the border back home, a sense of magic that could overwhelm even the lyrium-infused chains and the overdoses of magebane and restore him, but he didn’t even realize they’d traveled well into the Imperium until Laertes set up camp for the night. For the first time in days he took extra care securing Dorian for the night, and set rune stones of warding around the campsite. “You’re a hot commodity,” he explained. “Last thing I need is someone else making off with you after I’ve done all the hard work.”

            His grin made Dorian sick. “I’m also a person, just so you know,” he called when Laertes went off to take a piss. “A very tired and sore and hungry person,” he added.

            “Now I know why the fucking Qunari sew their mages’ mouths shut,” Laertes said, shaking his head with disgust.

            The air was getting warmer, and Dorian figured they must be moving further north, even though he couldn’t see. He also noticed that Laertes was being more careful with the magebane dosage, because Dorian felt more alert. Maybe he was running low. Dorian hoped so. If he lived for another age he wouldn’t want to go near magebane ever again.

            It was nightfall two days later when Laertes pulled the cart over, but to Dorian’s confusion did not set up camp. “Time to shut you up, smooth talker,” he said, forcing a rag into Dorian’s mouth and tying it tightly. Dorian kept glaring at him until Laertes grabbed the hood and jerked it over Dorian’s head.

            The cart drove on under cover of night and finally stopped. Dorian heard muffled voices and then he was being pulled from the cart. There was one guard on either side of him, gripping him roughly by the elbows and dragging him along. He tried to get his footing but it was pointless. He knew they were indoors at least. Finally after many twists and turns he was set down and pushed to his knees.

            Silence. He trembled and reached for the Fade and it was still not there. He was in a house in Tevinter, so he should have at least been able to feel the magic in that, but he couldn’t. For the first time he began to wonder if he’d ever feel the Fade again; the fear of becoming what the southerners called Tranquil made him want to retch.

            Footsteps. Laertes pulled off the hood and Dorian squinted. It wasn’t torchlight, but a soft orange glow from magical globes placed around the room. He knew the dark inlaid floor, knew the mahogany desk. Knew the boots that now stood before him.

            “ _Festis bei umo canavarum,”_ his father hissed. “Look at me, Dorian,” he snapped.

            Dorian looked up. If possible he was even more scared than when he’d first woken in the cart after Laertes had captured him. He didn’t know how this had never crossed his mind. Even in the depths of his pain and humiliation he’d never thought that his father would be the one paying a templar to drag him home, bound, gagged, and unable to use his magic.

            “I suppose _you’ll_ be pleased to know that the Valerias family has rescinded their offer of marriage,” Halward said, and Dorian looked away as his father began to pace, towering over him. Halward stopped. Dorian stared at the floor. “ _Venhedis,”_ Halward snapped and smacked Dorian across the face with the back of his hand. His raised emerald ring caught Dorian hard in the cheekbone and pain blossomed over the side of his face. Tears jumped into Dorian’s eyes and he couldn’t cry, he had to hold it together…

            “You are the key to the Pavus family legacy,” Halward said after a moment of silence. “Without you our family dies. Thousands of years of magic, gone. Dead, with you; _because_ of you. I can’t keep watching you make a ruin of your life. I _won’t_ keep watching it,” he said. He knelt down and tilted Dorian’s chin up, forcing his son to meet his eyes. “This is a lesson, Dorian,” he said quietly. “If you defy me like this ever again you will force my hand to employ my absolute last resort. Is this understood?”

            Dorian nodded, even if he did not entirely agree with his father, or believe him fully. What could be worse than _this?_

            Halward snapped his fingers and a slave brought a wooden box forward. Dorian felt drawn to it like a drowning man drawn to air. Lyrium. The slave handed it to Laertes, who opened the box and if possible looked at it even more hungrily than Dorian did. “I added something extra for your pains,” Halward said with a smile, while Dorian knelt in his chains between them, seemingly forgotten with blood running down his face. “Will you kindly unbind my son? Your… clever devices would likely stymie me,” Halward said almost apologetically.

            Dorian was torn between shame and humiliation and anger, but all were replaced by gratitude when Laertes unlocked his chains for the first time in weeks and removed the gag. “We should do this again sometime,” he rasped to Laertes, who did not even smile. Just took his box of lyrium and left.

            Dorian remained kneeling on the floor, having not the strength to get up. He stared at the wood inlay in the floor, at his dirty hands and swollen, bloody wrists. He tentatively reached for the Fade, but his father slapped him again. “You’re not escaping that easily,” Halward snapped. He sat down behind his desk, staring over it and down at his son. “What were you thinking?” he asked. “Were you even thinking?” He tapped his fingers restlessly. “You defy me; you disrespect a noble house eager for a marriage arrangement with you; and you all but shit all over Alexius’s hospitality.”

            “When you put it that way…” Dorian said with a wry half-smile. “I suppose I do deserve some of this.”

            “You deserve all of it! I am the laughingstock of the Magisterium! You’ve shamed yourself and your family and you sit there smiling like it’s a joke!” He held his head in his hands, and for the first time Dorian could see some humanity in his father. The man who’d always had it together, who seemed immutable and implacable, was more than angry or frustrated. He was truly upset. “I love you, Dorian,” he said finally. “I know it doesn’t seem that way after all of this. But it’s for your own good. You need to learn.”

            “Maybe you do, too,” Dorian said softly. What more could Halward do to him? What else did he have to lose?

            “I will pretend you didn’t say that,” Halward said. He sighed. “I can hardly believe it myself, but for some reason Alexius would like you to return to study with him.”

            That was pleasantly surprising in the midst of all of this. “Why?”

            “ _Fasta vass,_ Dorian, I don’t know!” Halward shouted. “But I’ve agreed, if only so I don’t have to look at you for the time being. If you weren’t my only son I’d have let that templar drag you to the nearest southern circle to be made Tranquil!” He caught himself and took a deep breath, which he let out slowly. “You will have house Pavus guards with you in Minrathous from now on, who will report any unsavory behavior directly to me. You will finish your studies with Alexius, and you will marry a woman of noble breeding suitable to your status.”

            He stood and approached Dorian. He reached out and Dorian shied away, but he passed his hand over Dorian’s face and hands. The calming bluish-green light felt good, and the blistered, bleeding skin healed before his eyes. The pain in his cheek was only a slight, dull ache.

            Halward headed to the door, but paused before leaving. “Your mother was worried. You will clean up and present yourself at breakfast, and you will tell her you returned of your own volition.” The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Dorian alone for the first time in weeks.

           


	8. The Devil

_Chapter 8: The Devil_

 

            Living a lie festered within him like a poison, but every time Dorian wanted to say something, anything, about it, he remembered his father’s threats about an “absolute last resort”. Normally Dorian would have thought Halward was bluffing; but if having his son kidnapped and dragged home wasn’t a last resort, Dorian didn’t know what was. He hated living in fear, and he hated having to look at himself in the many mirrors that adorned the Alexius house.

            For nearly a year he’d sulked in these halls under the watchful gaze of Gereon Alexius and his Venatori friends, who seemed to be spending more time gathering together. He always found reasons to be busy during their dinner parties. He had to study; he had spell sequences to practice; he had a date with some Magister’s daughter. Alexius always raised an eyebrow, and Felix searched Dorian with a troubled gaze, but he was allowed to go.

            There was dancing, there was drinking, there were dinners at Minrathous bistros with candles and flowers and dazzling smiles. He walked the ladies to the gates of their mansions; gave a kiss on the cheek, a deep bow, and no promise of another night out. When he returned to Alexius’s house he would draw a steaming bath with frankincense oil in it and soak for hours as if he could wash away what he’d become for the night.

            Dorian tried to view it as a necessary evil. It got him out of the house whenever the Venatori met with their hushed whispers and furtive glares; and it made the Pavus guards more relaxed. At first they’d been so observant Dorian could hardly relieve himself without someone standing in the doorway. The more he attended to the young ladies of Minrathous, the more lax his father’s guards became.

            “You can’t escape tonight,” Felix said, standing in the doorway as Dorian waxed the ends of his mustache and smoothed his eyebrows in place. Felix leaned against the doorframe, looking quite casual, but his cheeks seemed a bit hollow and his skin lacked the usual glow from the northern sun. “Urathus. Eremond. Julex. Devrenix. And more,” he said. “They’ll all be here.”

            “Those names mean nothing to me.” Dorian closed his eyes so he would not have to look at Felix and feel the stabbing pain in his chest. He hadn’t said more than a few words at a time to Felix since returning to Minrathous; he still felt too guilty for running away, and the circumstances of his return was something he wanted to bury deep in the past.

            “Some of the highest ranking Venatori,” Felix said, entering and sitting on the edge of Dorian’s bed. “Something big happened. There were Grey Wardens at the Circle today.” Dorian stared at him for an explanation. “Wardens usually avoid Tevinter. You know, because we started the whole thing,” Felix said with a grin. While the rest of Thedas pointed blame at Tevinter, Tevinters thought it was a big joke; if not us, then someone else, Dorian’s father had once said.

            “Why do I have to be there?” Dorian asked. “I’m scheduled to meet with Lavinia Naxos this evening.”

            Felix shook his head. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Dorian?”

            “I was a discredit to the Pavus household,” Dorian said, reciting lines that had been forced into his head by his father before he’d come back here. “I’m not a carefree boy any longer, and must behave in a manner befitting a future Magister.” The words were hollow and broken and his voice sounded wrong.

            “ _Vishante kaffas._ You don’t believe a word of what you’re saying,” Felix said. He sighed and rubbed his head. “You can’t hide things from me forever, Dorian.”

            “I can try.”

            “I probably know you better than anyone, your own parents included,” Felix challenged.

            “You probably do,” Dorian admitted. He pulled a bench over and sat down, facing Felix. “I… I’m not sure you’d understand, so I don’t know where to begin.”

            Felix shrugged. “You like men.” Dorian stared at him, cheeks flaming. Felix took in Dorian’s furious blush and clenched jaw. “And you father had drawn up the arrangement with Aurelia. Is that why you ran?” Dorian nodded. “Maker. I thought it had to do with the Ventatori.”

            Dorian shook his head, unable to find words. Felix held out his hand and Dorian crossed the room and sat next to his friend. When Felix put his arm around him and encouraged Dorian to rest his head on his shoulder, he realized how painfully much he’d missed Felix. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to drag you into my mess. And it did become quite a mess.” His voice was halting and broke here and there, but he told Felix the story of his flight and subsequent capture, and by the end Felix’s eyes were wide and his nostrils were flared.

            “Your _father_ did that to you?” he asked in a low voice. “If he were here right now I would hit him,” he said, clenching his hand into a tight fist. He wrapped Dorian in a hug. His arms felt bony, but his embrace was sure. “I’m so sorry, Dor. I wish you’d told me.”

            Dorian’s laugh sounded more like the croak of a raven. “It wasn’t my brightest shining moment,” he said, cursing as he wiped tears from his eyes. It had been a year; surely it couldn’t still feel so raw and painful? “And sometimes I still have those feelings in the Fade. The helplessness. The fear.”

            Felix squeezed his shoulder with one hand and grasped Dorian’s hand with the other. “If the rumors are true,” he began, his voice trembling with some excitement, “we may never have to fear again.”

            A life without fear. Dorian had thought that, growing up in a wealthy Altus family, he’d never have to be afraid of anything or anyone; but as he’d grown it seemed that all he did was fear, even more now that he knew what his father was capable of. A life without fear was a huge temptation, and the way Felix looked at him, Felix knew it too.

            “It’s time to stop being afraid, Dorian,” Felix said, and leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Please?”

            Dorian took a deep breath. “Only because you asked so nicely,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. His heart fluttered and his stomach knotted up. Felix nodded once and left, and Dorian cleaned himself up again. He was about to descend into a nest of vipers. He could show no weakness.

            “Dorian! What a pleasant surprise!” Alexius said, his face lighting up as Dorian entered the sitting room. Bottles of wine had already been opened and aerated, and servants stood around bearing platters of fruits, cheeses, and cured meats. Yellow-orange globes glowed with a soft light. “I was beginning to think you didn’t care for our company,” Alexius said with his smile pasted on, but his eyes were chilly.

            “I’m progressing at an exponential rate—magically as well as socially,” Dorian said with a wink, pouring his own wine. The action drew the attention of the many high-born Magisters and Altuses in the room, but Dorian didn’t care; the last time he’d taken a drink from another person, it had been magebane. He didn’t have much reason to trust the Venatori, besides. “The young ladies of Minrathous have kept me occupied.”

            “I’m sure your father is pleased,” said one Magister, whom Dorian had not yet met. “It’s odd for a young man of your years to still be unattached,” he said with a wink.

            “He’s not the only one,” Felix said, jumping to Dorian’s rescue. “Honestly Servis, you’re making me feel quite left out.” He was grinning, but his stance clearly said that the subject should be dropped. Servis nodded once politely, and Dorian averted his eyes from Felix, even though he was grateful to his friend. Gratitude meant he owed Felix, and he could not show that there was a debt in front of these men.

            Dorian sipped his wine and listened to the conversations around him. They were more animated than any other meeting he’d ever been to of Alexius and the Venatori. Much of the conversation centered on a discovery in the Vimmark Mountains out in the Free Marches. Dorian hadn’t heard anyone talk about the Free Marches so favorably in… well, in forever. Kirkwall was a failed port of a bygone era; and everything around it was uncultured southern land. The way they talked now made it sound like an exotic holiday location.

            Halward Pavus’s liveried guards lounged on the outskirts of the room, a constant reminder to Dorian that he must behave, or else. In the past weeks their presence had decreased, so it made him nervous about what tonight may hold. He had no doubt that his father was in constant contact with Alexius.

            Fortunately, whatever had been discovered in the Vimmark Mountains dominated conversation and no one spared much attention to Dorian. He tried to eat; the duck was perfectly cooked, just rare enough; but his stomach was in knots. He considered feigning illness but the guards were stationed at the door and one glance told him that he was going nowhere. He clutched his napkin in his lap.

            Felix was seated next to him, and he reached over under the tablecloth and patted Dorian’s hand. The whole time Felix was smiling and nodding at something Eremond was saying. Dorian closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he forced himself to smile and eat and drink another glass of wine.

            The manic conversation and sparkling eyes of each person around the table were enough to tell him what was next.

            The lemon tartlet served for dessert was almost a sick joke.

            When the table had been cleared by some very nervous servants Alexius bid them adjourn to his den. Again the floor was strewn with overstuffed cushions, and a pedestal filled with lyrium stood in the center of the room. Dorian felt the raw power surging around the room, like a beautiful and terrible song. He wanted to cover his ears but the music was inside of him, vibrating in his bones.

            Alexius waved his hand and the globes around the room dimmed and the pool of lyrium was the only illumination. Eremond and Julex stood on either side of him. Three slaves were brought out and Dorian felt nauseous. They all stood unaware of what was happening; Dorian noted the blank stares and realized they must be drugged, possibly on lyrium. All three Magisters took out their gleaming sacrificial knives at the same time. The room pulsed with magic and rang with the daggers.

            Dorian closed his eyes.

            All three died silently, and when he opened his eyes again more slaves knelt before the dead collecting their blood in golden chalices. Then each Magister took his own chalice and poured it into the basin of lyrium.

            The room went silent; Dorian could hardly even hear his pulse thrumming in his ears. Strange reddish light emanated from the basin and Alexius dipped his hand into it. He began to trace runes in the air before him, and where his hand went, he left behind a trail of glowing red. “We are the Venatori,” he said. “The chosen ones, gods on this earth.”

            Everyone repeated the words. Except Dorian.

            “We give ourselves to the Elder One. Our power is his power. His power will give us dominion over this world and in the Fade.”

            He finished his rune tracing. Then he dipped his chalice in the basin and, holding it reverently in both hands before the glowing rune, he tilted it back and drank some. The other Venatori lined up as the other two Magisters filled their chalices. Felix went first. He knelt before his father, who touched his head with a bloody hand and chanted a blessing in a language Dorian did not recognize—which in itself was frightening, for he was quite good with languages. Alexius handed his son the goblet. Dorian watched as Felix tipped it back and drank of the mix of sacrificial blood and lyrium.

            Felix staggered away and found a place to lie back. His eyes were wide open, unblinking as he descended into the Fade. His body was rigid: he looked ready to run, even though he was prostrate. Mixing blood into the lyrium must have had a different effect.

            The high-ranking Venatori were in various states of ecstasy in the Fade, their eyes wide open and their mouths smeared with blood. This was the future of Tevinter. Not overcoming the Qunari, not properly funding schools or allowing Laetans to have representation in the Magisterium; but bloody-faced men desperate to become gods. Dorian closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this.

            He opened his eyes to the ruddy light and the fainting Venatori. He saw the glowing bloody rune traced in the air. And he saw that there were no guards posted at the door, so he took a deep breath and quietly walked out. When he got to the hallway he broke into a run, headed for his rooms, one thought in mind.

            Alexius was going to regret teaching Dorian what he knew about time manipulation magic.


	9. Seven of Wands

_Chapter 9: Seven of Wands_

 

            Alexius had not yet figured out how to bend time enough to travel through it. But he had found a spell that allowed time to speed up for the caster and any in his or her vicinity, while time seemed to slow for those not affected by the spell. He called it Haste. Dorian was terrified to use it, because the potential for backfiring was so great. But if ever there was a time to take a risk, and to be hasty, this was it.

            He’d slowly been packing his things over the last couple of weeks, and knew that most of it could be replaced once he arrived at his destination; the things that couldn’t, he’d shipped ahead for his eventual arrival. His father, pleased with Dorian’s sudden interest in women, had been generous with his funds, and Dorian had been saving some aside. He’d run away without a plan before, and it had been disastrous. He did not intend to make that mistake ever again.

            The edges of his vision were muted, though everything directly in his line of sight was preternaturally defined: an effect of the Haste spell. He’d practiced it with Alexius, and then on his own in secret so he could get accustomed to the effects of it. It wouldn’t last long, so he hurried through his rooms one last time, slung his pack over his shoulder, and headed out the door to his private garden. Things were appearing sharper now, and he knew he had to hurry. He broke into a nervous run and made it to the gate, which of course was locked.

            But he was ready for this. He’d learned to snake the tiniest thread of magic into a locking mechanism and neutralize the spells that held it closed; he figured it would also be useful if he ever found himself in chains again, which was quite likely, given what he was about to do.

            He clicked the gate closed behind him and stole out into the alleys of Minrathous, cloak up and feet silent. He doubled back and crossed his paths and took the long way to the eastern docks. By then Haste had worn off; he hoped that the Venatori were still in their blood-induced Fade dreams; just one thought about Felix, face bloody and eyes wide, was enough to convince Dorian he was doing the right thing.

            It was late, but there were always ships sailing the Nocen Sea between Minrathous and Vyrantium, usually to supply the latter with lyrium the dwarves brought first into the capital city. Dorian waited in the short queue line of passengers booking passage south, gazing about nervously, ears pricked listening for some alarm. He didn’t know how much time had passed. He jingled his coin pouch nervously and shuffled toward the gangplank.

            “Where are you going?”

            Dorian spun around when the guard grabbed him, and a blast of violet electric magic blasted the guard backward. “That is what happens when you presume to lay hands on me, ser,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible, though he was shaking inside. He was so close to escaping.

Three more melted from the shadows with swords drawn. Dorian realized he didn’t recognize them as regulars. Had his father made a guard rotation? He reached for his magic, but he felt tired and focusing was hard. The three closed in and there was a feeling of the air being sucked away. Dorian stepped back, doing his best to keep his head. “Templars,” he announced, casually, knowing just what effect the dreaded word would have. The few passengers ahead of him wheeled around. Suddenly staves were bared at the advancing guards, and one man had sliced open his palm and used his own blood to create a burst of energy that threw the three guards back.

The first guard, wearing House Pavus livery, was having a hard time getting back to his feet. “Run home to my father if you must,” Dorian said, curling his lip in a sneer as he tried to catch his breath. “I’m through with this.”

            He turned away and clenched his hands to keep from shaking. Everyone on the dock was watching him but he’d been raised to be accustomed to attention. “Thank you,” he said to the man who’d so casually performed blood magic to protect him.

The man only laughed. “Whoever would send templars this deep into Tevinter is slower than a sloth demon at a Grand Proving,” he said. “They may be able to drain mana, but luckily mana isn’t the only way to access magic.” He looked at Dorian, and if he recognized him, he said nothing. “Take care, young man,” he said, and boarded the ship.

“One way to Vyrantium,” Dorian said. He dropped a purse of coins onto the podium.

            “You realize this is too much,” the man said, looking up from his ledger..

            Dorian shrugged. “I believe that you will find it sufficient for the trouble you may incur for selling me passage,” he said. “I apologize in advance.”

            The man looked between the purse of coins and Dorian’s calm, yet serious expression and piercing grey eyes. At last he nodded. “Aye. No promises.”

            “None expected.” Dorian was the last person up the gangplank, and as the ship set sail he turned his back on Minrathous and went below decks to sleep.

            He’d planned this escape far better than his brief trip to Orlais, but he hadn’t counted on the seasickness. He tried to keep his legs under him, but, much to the humor of the crew and other passengers, he couldn’t walk more than a few paces at a time without having to hug a wall or lean on a railing. And the vomiting. He hadn’t realized his stomach was capable of such antics, and he’d been quite drunk more than a few times.

            But he was free, if just for the few days it would take to reach Vyrantium, and he would gladly stumble around the decks pausing to vomit for a week if it meant never returning to Minrathous again.

            Dorian half expected a contingent of Pavus guards, led by Halward himself, to meet him at the Vyrantium docks; but when they dropped anchor in the harbor Dorian saw no one. It was slightly cooler and the air felt fresher.

            He didn’t have as much coin left as he would have liked, but there was no way he was walking to the Circle like this. He hailed a coach along the Avenue of Quays and the driver hardly believed him when he asked to be taken to the Circle. However, it wasn’t as strange as the way the doormen at the Circle looked at him.

            Dorian wanted to laugh with joy even as the doorman surveyed him suspiciously. “Dorian Pavus,” he said. He bowed slightly. “Mage of the Circle, returned to take my place here.”

            He did not expect laughter, but it didn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. When he’d first come to these doors six years ago he’d been well groomed and completely ignorant of just how… well, fucked up Tevinter was. But fucked up or not, it was his home and he would be damned if he saw it fall to the likes of the Venatori. “I’ve sent my things ahead from Minrathous,” he explained. “And I bear this.” He showed his amulet. “You may ask the First Enchanter to confirm the authenticity if you wish. I’d not blame you,” he added. He’d caught his reflection in the coach’s window; he was scruffy and dirty, in need of a wash, a shave, and probably a good meal and some better wine.

            He couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed when they made him wait outside in the sun for the First Enchanter. Though Vyrantium was far smaller than Minrathous, it still felt more open, and far less oppressive.

            “Dorian? That can’t be you!” The First Enchanter pushed past the doormen and strode up to Dorian. He took him by the shoulders and looked him over. “Six years. We thought you’d defected to Minrathous’s Circle by now,” he said with a smile.

            “I’ve found Minrathous is not to my liking,” Dorian said simply. “And I’ve no desire to return to Qarinus as long as I live. It took six years to figure it out, but Vyrantium is home,” he said.

            “We began to wonder when your things arrived,” the First Enchanter said. “We didn’t dare to hope, and yet here you are. Livius passed two years ago, so we are in need of a Necromancy expert…” The First Enchanter went on excitedly, and Dorian half listened as they walked the dark stone hallways of the Circle. He remembered it all so well, even though he’d only spent two years here. “Unfortunately your old rooms were given to a new member not long after you were sent to Minrathous,” the First Enchanter said. “But there will always be a place for you here,” he added, and the look he gave Dorian made him want to sob with gratitude.

            His new suite was a bit darker than his old one, but it didn’t matter. He was back in the one place he’d never felt pressured to be anyone or anything other than himself. He had a bath drawn, and gave himself a good shave. For the first time in years he felt he could relax and let his guard down somewhat.

            At dinner he found that not many new mages had come into the Circle since he’d left, but there were promises of introductions, and all of his old friends and mentors all but climbed over one another to ask him questions about his time in the capital.

            “Is it true Alexius is experimenting with time?” one asked.

            Dorian shrugged and smiled. “Experimenting, but nothing conclusive,” he said. He’d picked up many tactics in Minrathous, and knew they were no less useful here. “But tell me of Livius’s passing,” he said, furrowing his brow, and they launched into a discussion of the old mage’s death and the topic of Alexius did not resurface. Eventually Dorian feigned exhaustion and excused himself. He locked himself in his room, both physically and magically, sealing even the windows with wards of guarding and warning.

            The next days were a whirl of meetings and appointments. No young mages had shown a penchant for Necromancy, and it was just as well for Dorian. He felt he still had much to learn about the strange branch of magic before he would be comfortable taking on apprentices. And he was still only twenty-one years old. Livius had probably been four times his age! So Dorian was given a reprieve and spent his days researching what he could about the Venatori: their history, their habits, their manifestos; it suddenly felt desperately important to learn all he could about them.

            But he also realized it was high time he crafted his own staff: something made with his own hands, suited to his own needs and talents. The primal spells that had come so easily to him were practical, but any future enemies would also know those. He focused on his connection to the Fade and the spirits that milled about and accepted his presence and heeded his voice.

            Surprisingly, working with his hands felt good, as if he’d spent the last years in Minrathous being too idle. It felt good to focus, to feel the magic flowing from his hands and into the wood, and from the wood itself back into him. Any other staff he’d ever held had been just a tool; this would be an extension of himself.

            “That’s beautiful work,” someone said, and Dorian jumped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

            Dorian looked up, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He would have to get over his nerves eventually. He would not keep living in fear of his father. He started to smile and then his eyes widened. The man who stood a few feet away was breathtaking: skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, and his lip curled when he smiled in a way that made Dorian want to take him right there. But he swallowed and took another deep breath. “I was so intent upon my work that I didn’t realize I was being watched,” he said. “There is no need to apologize, and I thank you for the compliment…”

            “Relenus.” Maker. He didn’t miss a beat. “And you…”

            “Dorian.”

            “A pleasure,” Relenus said, holding out his hand. Dorian took it and received a firm, sure handshake. “I’ve not seen you around before. Though I’ve only been in this Circle for a couple years.”

            “I was apprenticing in Minrathous,” Dorian explained, liking the way Relenus didn’t make a fuss over him, or ask anything about what he’d been doing. It was like a fresh start with him. “I returned a few days back.”

            “Welcome back, then,” Relenus said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you; I’ll let you get back to work on your staff. Maybe when it’s done we could spar.”

            “I’d enjoy that,” Dorian said with a smile, ducking his head and hurrying back to his work before Relenus could see him blush. He hummed as he worked, feeling the electricity beneath his fingertips as he imbued the staff with his innate talent for lightning and his connection to the spirits of the Fade. He thought of Relenus and his finely tanned skin, his night-dark eyes, and his straight, dark hair and sparks shot from his fingertips. Perhaps he’d better stop before he lost any more focus.

            Dorian only saw Relenus in passing; and only occasionally after that. His staff was far from finished, so he had no real reason to seek out the other mage, other than his attraction to him. But the fear of his father was still in his heart, that perpetual uncertainty as he wondered when Halward would show up again.

            He didn’t have to wait long; two weeks after he’d arrived back in Vyrantium he was finishing up a chess game with the First Enchanter when they heard a commotion in the hall outside the study. There was shouting and a fair amount of swearing before someone pounded on the door so hard the framed pictures on either side rattled on the wall.

            “I apologize in advance,” Dorian told the First Enchanter. He remained sitting, twirling his queen between his fingers. His heart was in his mouth, but he’d known there was no avoiding this.

            The First Enchanter wordlessly got up and opened the door—after casting a glyph of warding on himself. Dorian considered following suit, but decided not to. If his father was going to attack him, he wasn’t going to cower behind a glyph; he was going to fight back.

            “Lord Halward,” the First Enchanter said, opening the door and standing right in the middle so Halward could not get around. “Thank you for testing the sturdiness of my door. Your visit is… unexpected.”

            Dorian lounged in the chair, as defiant and casual as he could manage. He glanced up at his father, whose face was bright red as he tried to see around the First Enchanter. “Oh, I expected him eventually, First Enchanter,” Dorian said. “In fact, I’m rather surprised it took him this long.” He looked at the board and set down his queen, placing his opponent’s king in check. “We can return to this soon, if you’d like, First Enchanter,” Dorian said with a smile. “I’m sure my father’s little chat will leave you time to figure out how to maneuver out of this.”

            The First Enchanter chuckled, but for the first time since Dorian had known him, he seemed nervous. No doubt he knew of the last time Dorian had run off; the entire Imperium had to at this point. And Halward was absolutely livid as he waited for Dorian to stroll out, smoothing his Vyrantium robes neatly.

            “What? No templars this time?” Dorian asked when they’d walked a few paces down the halls. “It must be a special occasion for you to come after me yourself.”

            “Get that smug expression off your face, or Maker help me, I will do it for you,” Halward snapped, stopping and turning to face Dorian, who was now the same height as he.

            “No, you won’t,” Dorian said, crossing his arms over his chest. His father’s eyes, so like his own, widened and his nostrils flared. “I think you seem to have forgotten that I came of age three years ago, _and_ I am a full member of the Vyrantium Circle with all the rights and privileges accorded to me as a result. Treat me like a child if you wish, but I am through reacting like one.”

            “How _dare you_ ,” Halward hissed. “After all I’ve done—“

            Dorian laughed. “Like what? Shipped me off to Minrathous; had me hauled back to Qarinus by a templar; threatened me… I’m supposed to be grateful for that?” he asked.

            Halward took a deep, hissing breath. “I will not be publicly humiliated by you, Dorian.”

            “Yet you have no problem publicly humiliating me.”

            His father was struggling to keep his cool. “Let us go somewhere more suited to this conversation,” he suggested.

            “If you’re suggesting my rooms? That will not be happening.”

            “I am your _father_ Dorian!”

            “And I am an adult,” Dorian said. It was hard to keep his voice calm and to keep his hands from shaking. At least here in the Circle his father wouldn’t dare try anything questionable. There was too much at stake for him. “There is a small conservatory we may go to,” he suggested after a moment.

            The walk was longer than any Dorian had ever made. He nodded pleasantly to passing mages, who glanced at Halward’s angry face and Dorian’s grin. There would be talk this evening, for certain. At last they approached the room and Dorian led his father inside. He didn’t bother to cast any glyphs; let them hear the shouts. Let Halward be forced to control himself, lest his precious reputation be tarnished even more.

            They sat down across the room from one another. “Alexius is worried about you,” Halward began.

            “No he isn’t,” Dorian said. “He’s afraid his pet protégé has run off with his secrets.”

            Halward sighed. “I can’t keep doing this with you, Dorian.”

            “You don’t have to. I’m an adult. You seem to forget that fact.”

            “If you’re an adult then perhaps you don’t require my assistance any longer,” Halward challenged.

            He was threatening to cut him off. It was a desperate measure, and Dorian could already feel the pain in his purse at the threat. Altuses possessed three things in excess: magic, pride, and money. Halward’s threat was real, and it was effective. Dorian nearly cracked, but then remembered that his father’s generosity had gone to buy evenings out with women he’d never called on again, women he didn’t like in the first place, women he hated himself for lying to, and even more for lying to himself. “I do believe I could manage just fine,” Dorian said lightly. “I don’t intend to fill my nights here with wining and dining.”

            Halward’s face took on a purple hue when Dorian called his bluff. “You push too far, Dorian,” he warned.

            “How so?” Dorian asked, jumping out of his seat. The air crackled with magic around him. “I’m of age. I’m a productive member of a Circle. What more do you want?” he asked. “Oh, right, none of that is enough unless I’m settled with a wife of your choosing.” He was going too far now, but he didn’t care. “I don’t want you to choose one. I’m twenty-one years of age, and I’m through being treated like a child.”

            His father sat still in his chair, face purple-red; he was silent and he clutched the chair arms tightly. Dorian expected him to have a bout of apoplexy, but Halward exhaled slowly and loosened his grip. “Find your way if you must, Dorian, but you’ll have no help from me.”

            “Thank you for understanding,” Dorian said.

            Halward headed to the door and paused. “I don’t understand. But you dare too much and push too hard, and I fear for you.”

            Dorian’s heart flipped. He very nearly apologized then and there, but instead stood his ground and watched his father leave. When Halward was out of sight he collapsed into the chair as if his bones had suddenly turned to jelly. He clutched his head in his hands and struggled to breathe around the sobs trying to choke him.

            He missed Felix.

            In his rooms he found a scroll and quill and scratched a quick message: _This time it was the Venatori._

He owed Felix at least that much of an explanation.


	10. Six of Cups

Chapter 10: Six of Cups

 

Money flowed as freely as blood and magic in Dorian’s stratum of Imperium society. But Halward was not one for idle threats, and as the days and then weeks passed by there were no letters for Dorian, and no funds flowing into his accounts. It was worrisome; it was never a thing Dorian had ever had to _think_ about, let alone _worry_ about before. But it was worth it, if only to be able to look at himself in the mirror every day and not hate the man he saw.

            Halward had cut Dorian off financially, thinking it would stifle his son; but Dorian had never felt so free. Unlike his life in Minrathous, everything he needed was contained in the Vyrantium Circle. Any materials he needed were provided as part of his research; any books he needed were in the library, and those that weren’t could be procured at no cost. His rooms and meals were provided, and he was able to meet with his peers and mentors without the pretenses of a party atmosphere.

            He had no need for pretense, unless it was where his preferences were concerned; and then, it was less pretense and more avoidance. No one ever said anything, but Dorian knew that Halward’s attitude about his preference was far more common in Tevinter than not. It happened, but was kept hushed and was only for quick pleasure, or to avoid getting a woman with child. It was never anything more. Dorian found it best to just avoid temptation as much as possible where that was concerned, so he avoided Relenus as much as he could.

            Dorian instead focused on finishing his staff. He found that focusing on the task helped him work through the hurricane of feelings inside. He’d set in it runes that focused and enhanced his penchant for lightning magic and his connection to the spirits of the Fade.

            When he felt his work was complete he took it to a large room in the lowest levels of the Circle. The room was lit by green veilfire torches and it felt a bit like walking in water, since being in the room put one on the line between reality and the Fade. Spirits flitted at the corners of his vision, but whenever he tried to see one straight-on it disappeared. There was an understanding between the spirits here, and the mages, that the purpose of the room was for training.

            Dorian gripped his staff and felt the magic flow from him and back into him; he didn’t know where he ended and the staff began. A milky white spirit materialized before him and he brandished the staff, channeling electricity down his arm and into the staff, and directed it at the spirit. A concentrated bolt of lightning pierced it and it evaporated. Another appeared behind him and he wheeled around and hit it with an arcane bolt. Two more approached from his right and he flung out the staff and hit them with a cluster of bolts that radiated an area of effect and vaporized the spirits.

            He went on like this for at least an hour. The spirits kept coming and he kept fighting, moving smoothly and striking like a snake. He didn’t focus on the opponents, but on his movements and his spell casting. When his mana dropped, he switched to simple arcane bolt attacks and maneuvering away from threats while waiting to recharge. It was more physical work than he was used to and it left him breathing hard and sweating; but he kept moving, kept firing, kept focused. Venatori wouldn’t let him pause to catch his breath, and they would probably be fighting with blood magic. He wouldn’t sink to that; he had to be better than they were, without that advantage.

            Suddenly he was knocked to his knees by a hard magical blow from behind. Without thinking he cast Haste, surrounding himself with a golden dome of energy that made everything outside of it seem muted and slow. He got to his feet and spun around, staff pointed at his attacker.

            It was Relenus, looking shocked at Dorian’s use of the spell. Dorian waved his hand and ended the spell and had a sensation of his stomach lurching when he returned to normal time and movement. “Good afternoon,” he said, catching his breath after his fight. “Have you come for that sparring match you suggested?”

            Relenus leaned on his staff and nodded. “I heard you were down here and thought you might be ready for me.” He smiled and straightened up. “Unless you’re too tired?”

            Now that he had stopped Dorian was exhausted. But he pasted on a bright smile and bowed slightly. “Never. What’s your school?”

            Relenus grinned, his dark eyes mischievous. “I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

            “I like…” Dorian was about to say _when you play hard to get_ , but he stopped himself. “I like a challenge,” he said. The near-slip was enough to shake his confidence and focus, and he found himself on the receiving end of a hard arcane bolt to the stomach. Without thinking he reached for the Fade and called upon spirits of fear and horror to give him a moment to recover.

            Relenus swept his staff in a wide arc and conjured a shimmering protective barrier. He held up his left hand and waved it over his head and Dorian’s Horror spell dissipated.

            “Spirit, then,” Dorian said with a grin.

            “We may find ourselves at an impasse,” Relenus said. “Necromancer.”

            “And proud of it,” Dorian said and blasted chain lightning at Relenus. The other mage’s concentration had been momentarily broken; his barrier absorbed most of the lightning damage, but some broke through; it destroyed the barrier and he flew backward and slid across the polished marble floor.

            Perhaps it was too much. Dorian went over to Relenus, set to apologize as the other mage struggled to his feet. But Relenus just looked up, smiled, and blasted Dorian with a Cone of Cold that left him frozen and rooted to the floor. “Where are your dead friends now?” Relenus teased, tapping Dorian’s iced-over shoulder with his staff.

            Dorian could hardly breathe and there was a buzzing in him as he shivered against the hard case of ice around him. He’d been burned and zapped and smote, but never frozen. It was new, and he didn’t like it. His first instinct was to struggle against the ice, but then he remembered he was first and foremost a primal mage. He reached deep inside and pulled up his mana reserves, and channeled them into his fire spells.

            The warmth started in the pit of his stomach and spread up through his chest and down his legs and arms. He gave a mighty struggle and the ice shattered into melting shards around him as a flash of fire burst forth and was quickly extinguished. It left Dorian breathing hard and with little mana reserve left, but he held out his staff in defense, ready for Relenus’s next spell.

            But Relenus wasn’t casting; he was watching him oddly. “That was… incredible,” he finally said. “Are you alright?”

            “Fine,” Dorian said. “I’ve never been frozen before, so I suppose the experience is good.”

            “I didn’t mean to get carried away,” Relenus said, blushing. “But I’ve never fought anyone as good as you.”

            Dorian blushed as well. “You’re kind. I’m woefully out of practice.”

            “Then we must do this again sometime,” Relenus said with a sparkle in his dark eyes. “If this is you out of practice, I’d love to see you at your best.”

            “I will take you up on that,” Dorian said with a grin.

            Nothing could ever happen with Relenus, Dorian realized; but having him around at least helped take his mind off of Felix, who’d never written back to him. He had to have felt betrayed; he’d called Dorian his brother, only for Dorian to run and abandon that bond. _I did it for the right reasons,_ he kept telling himself.

“So why didn’t you transfer to the Minrathous Circle?” Relenus asked him over a chess game one morning. The paler sun of winter had not dulled his smooth tan, and he was like a little bit of summer that Dorian could not help but cling to. “You’re obviously good enough.”

            Dorian shrugged. “Minrathous held little interest for me,” he said. “What about you?” he asked. There’d been a time when he would have loved talking about himself; but with all he’d seen and experienced in just a few short years, there were many things he thought better left unsaid.

            Relenus waved his hand. “Just some nowhere village on the border of the Imperium and Antiva. When I displayed magical capabilities as a child we moved closer to Vyrantium so I could study. I was able to find a patron who sponsored me and paid my tuition to study here at the Circle.”

            So he was a Laetans then. “That’s fortunate,” Dorian said. “Sometimes I feel the Magisters don’t wish to encourage those born to non-magic parents. They’d see the Imperium fall to ruin first.”

            “People like your father?” Relenus asked.

            Dorian reddened and his throat felt closed up at the mention of his father. But it was true; Halward was a purist, and Dorian himself had been bred to carry on that legacy. “The man to whom I am a colossal disappointment?” Dorian asked with a forced grin. “Yes. He’s so old-school Tevinter that I think he secretly worships the Old Gods.”

            Relenus laughed. “I’m glad you’re not like other Altus mages, Dorian,” he said. “Then I might have to actually try to hurt you in our sparring matches.”

            “You’re not trying now?” Dorian asked. “I’m offended. Truly.” He grinned. “I may be too pretty to die, but I’d hope you’d at least make me work for my survival.”

            Relenus sat back, staring at Dorian with calculating dark eyes. “Maybe you’re more like other Altuses than I thought,” he said, but he couldn’t hold back his smile. “Fine, but it’s your funeral. I will meet you in the practice chamber tomorrow morning.” He moved a piece on the board before standing. “Checkmate,” he said and winked.

           

* * *

 

            By its very nature, there were some spells in the Necromancy school that Dorian could not practice unless he had first killed something. It was not something he was keen to try, but necessity dictated that he must. It felt like his whole life in Tevinter was one necessary evil after another.

            “I can’t rely on theory alone when it comes to knowing how to cast,” he said, pacing the First Enchanter’s office. “But I don’t want to kill for academic study, either,” he said, thinking of the slaves he’d seen die for no purpose other than increasing someone’s magic.

            The First Enchanter tapped his fingertips together. “You have quite the conundrum, Dorian,” he said at last. “Nothing with you is ever simple. Livius thought this might be an issue for you at some point.”

            “I wish he were still here,” Dorian said ruefully.

            “He would tell you the same thing I will,” the First Enchanter said. He leveled his electric blue gaze at Dorian. “The trade routes around the city are plagued with bandits attacking refugee mages who manage to escape the Free Marches; and the docks are infested with lyrium thieves and smugglers trying to get in on the market down south. It’s all more than the guards can handle.”

            Dorian absorbed this. “You’re saying…”

            “I’m saying that if you wanted to help, I don’t think anyone would mind.”

            That night Dorian dressed in his dark robes and donned a cloak. He hadn’t left the Circle since arriving months ago; he had no reason to, really, and after his father cut him off financially, there was no point going off the grounds. He went alone, and he was nervous. He wished Felix was with him, or even Relenus, but just the thought of what he was going to do made him feel slightly ill.

            Still, bandits and smugglers preyed on the weak and took advantage of the unwary. Neutralizing them was different than killing slaves for obscene blood magic rituals. Slaves were part of a household; they waited on families and kept the household running. Yes, they were slaves, but to kill them just for their blood seemed a gross betrayal. Dorian did not think favorably of his family anymore, but at least they’d never resorted to blood magic.

            He went to the docks, figuring that was relatively safer than being on the open road. There were more places to hide, and they were closer to the Circle. His breath came in quick gasps as he tried to quell his nerves. _I’m doing it for the right reasons,_ he thought; it had become a personal mantra whenever he didn’t feel quite right about something that had to be done.

            The water lapped gently at the dock pilings and Dorian situated himself behind a stack of crates and waited. The night air was cool and smelled of seaweed and salt and fish. There was only a sliver of a moon and the stars were out in a clear sky. The ships bobbed slowly in the water, their mooring lines creaking in the night.

            He waited for a long while. It was peaceful here by the harbor, without the constant thrum of magic coming from the walls. The quiet nearly put him to sleep, but he started and shook his head to clear the fog that was settling there. No, bad things happened when he got too relaxed.

            His ears perked up when he heard the first footsteps. It could just be city guard. Dorian let the Fade fill him and reached out the faintest tendrils to feel for magic. City guards were always Soporati. But these were not guards; there was magic there, so likely some Laetans who could not acquire sponsorship and had turned to smuggling. Somehow it made him feel a little bit better, since these smugglers had the advantage of magic.

            It was so quiet he was certain anyone out there would hear him breathing, or hear his heart thumping. He reached for the Fade and drew the spirits of darkness and death around him and they were oddly comforting. He remembered the hungry look on Laertes’s face when Halward had paid him in lyrium. He knew what he had to do.

            He stepped from the shadows as three smugglers began unloading crates of lyrium from a ship. They glowed faint blue and pulsed with magic. Dorian felt a surge of energy just from being in proximity to them. He held out his staff and the head crackled with electricity. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said with a smile. “Might I ask to where you are absconding with this lyrium that probably is not yours?”

            The closest smuggler swore and drew his sword. “No, you may not,” he said. “You won’t be asking anyone anything. Ever.” He charged at Dorian.

            This was not a practice room with spirits or even another well-trained opponent. This man was channeling his magic through his body and into his fighting, which made him dangerous. Dorian slammed the butt of his staff on the ground and lightning crackled up from the dock and blasted two of the three smugglers off their feet.

            The third was back too far to be affected, but he flung out his hand and a ball of fire came zooming toward Dorian. He swung out his staff in an arc, casting a passable barrier; it wasn’t as good as Relenus’s, but he wasn’t a spirit mage by nature and he just needed to keep from getting hit. The barrier did its job and the flames dissipated. Dorian pulled from the Fade and a deep purple shadow fell over all three smugglers. The two on the dock writhed, clutching their heads and screaming in terror while the third ran about trying to get away from the fear that had settled inside of him.

            Dorian took a deep breath and struck the nearest smuggler, the one with the sword, with the strongest bolt of lightning he could muster. The flash was blinding and when he blinked again the man was just… gone. Vaporized. In his place was a pale, milky spirit in human shape. Dorian waved his staff and the spirit went after one of the other two smugglers. The third Dorian stared down. The man was terrified, but came at him anyway. Dorian held up his hand and channeled his magic through his palm. The man staggered slightly, but kept running at him. When he was just a few paces away Dorian hit the dock with his staff and suddenly the man stopped. His eyes went wide and his face contorted and his limbs shook. Then he too vaporized in an explosion of violently purple spirit energy.

            The remaining smuggler was crawling across the dock, trying to escape the spirit of his dead companion. His panic flowed through the air, into the Fade, and through Dorian, reenergizing him. The magic rolled through his body and focused down into his staff. He aimed it at the terrorized smuggler and a brilliant bolt of lightning finished him off.

            The air cleared and Dorian caught his breath. He loosened his connection to the Fade and the spirits returned to their in-between world. He blinked to clear his vision and reeled in his mana. It felt like he was buzzing and ringing with all the magic. He leaned against a stack of crates and steadied himself before looking at the damage he’d done.

            He expected to have to clean up, but there was nothing left, just a few blackened char marks to indicate that he’d electrocuted and vaporized three bodies. The night was calm and the air cool and clean, though Dorian felt he would have the scent of burning flesh in his nose forever. The crates of lyrium were scattered haphazardly where they’d been dropped by the smugglers.

            Dorian heard a bell ringing and excited shouts. He didn’t know how long the fight had lasted; it felt like it had gone on so long, and yet it hardly seemed any time had passed. The city guard was bound to have heard. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pulled up his hood, and stole back to the Circle.

 


	11. The Tower

_Chapter 11: The Tower_

            The next few months were difficult as Dorian settled into practicing his Necromancy skills more regularly. Every bandit or smuggler or criminal could just as easily have been a Venatori, and Dorian would be damned if he’d let them get the better of him. They’d already taken his best friend, and for that he was angry. They wouldn’t take his country, too.

            Guards never came to the Circle looking for an explanation, and Dorian suspected the First Enchanter had struck a deal with the captain of the guard. The man never said anything, though Dorian often ran into him when he returned in the wee hours after a night of practice. He just nodded in greeting and disappeared, leaving Dorian to go work through his conflicted emotions on his own.

            He hated killing. But the tradeoff was that he was improving the quality of life in Vyrantium almost single-handedly. If magic taught anything it was that every action, every choice had a cost. What was he willing to pay?

            He wasn’t prepared for the fact that it actually got easier. After his first kills he’d spent the next day curled up in his bed staring at the walls and remembering the horrified expressions of his opponents, and still feeling like he could smell singed hair and charred flesh. The next time he vomited a few times on the way home. Then he was only dry heaving. And eventually he just thanked the Fade spirits and stole home to fall into a dead sleep. It was worrisome not to think about it, but then again, did those thieves and murderers and rapists think about the pain they caused, or how they made their world worse?

            Perhaps the world had been out of balance for so long that to be putting it into balance felt wrong.

            “Where do you go at night?” Relenus asked. “You just disappear.” He sat down across from Dorian in the library. He had a lopsided grin on his face and he leaned over the table. “Do you frequent the brothel?”

            Dorian tried not to blush. He’d found during his earlier stay here that the Vyrantium brothels did not cater to his tastes. “I told you. My father cut me off,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose he was jealous that I’m more talented and far better looking. No, I have… things to do.”

            Relenus raised his eyebrow. “So mysterious. What sorts of things do you have to do?”

            “Plan to take over the world with my good looks, charm, and talent alone,” Dorian said, flashing a brilliant grin. “And when that fails, I can at least fall back on being a Necromancy tutor for the rest of my life.”

            Relenus laughed. “Aren’t you in line for a seat in the Magisterium?” he asked. “Surely that’s more exciting than tutoring death magic?”

            Dorian furrowed his brow in thought. As far as he knew he hadn’t been entirely disinherited, so a position as a Magister was still possible. “I don’t know I even want to be a Magister,” he confessed. He tapped his quill against his book. “The one positive side to it is that it puts me in a position to make a difference.”

            The other mage just shook his head. “You don’t get it sometimes. Being a Magister is a _good_ thing. You’re guaranteed a seat in the Magisterium, and the _only_ good thing you can see about it is you might be able to make a difference? What about the money? The power?”

            “The Imperium is rotting from the inside out,” Dorian said, “ _because_ of money and power.”

            “So is that what you’re doing when you go out at night? Holding secret meetings for social justice crusaders?”

            “No.” Dorian rubbed his temples. He wished Relenus could understand his position, but to the other mage, Dorian just looked like a spoiled rich boy. He wished he could make him understand but he couldn’t do it without scaring Relenus away. “I have to finish this paper,” he said with a sigh. He focused intently on the parchment before him and scratched away with the quill, and finally Relenus shoved his chair back and left, muttering under his breath.

            “ _Fasta vass,”_ Dorian swore when Relenus was out of sight. He slammed the quill down. He wanted to go after Relenus, try to explain everything. But Relenus was slowly becoming his closest friend. He was no replacement for Felix, but no one ever would be. Dorian had alienated himself from his family and from most of Minrathous high society, no doubt. It was nice to have a close friend again. He’d just have to let Relenus stew for a bit.

            He yawned. He was so tired after his long nights spent practicing, and early mornings spent keeping up appearances. He wasn’t expected to be anywhere and the paper could wait; so he stacked up his books and asked the librarian to look after his things. He needed a nap.

            But even a nap seemed out of the question. Dorian had barely closed his eyes when he recognized the shifting green lights of the Fade. He sighed and sat down on a tree stump. The Black City was always at the edge of his vision, and the green and violet mists swirled around him.

            “You’re not much happier in Vyrantium, are you.”

            Dorian looked up. “Dammit, Ophelia, I just wanted to take a nap,” he snapped.

            But it wasn’t Ophelia; this one had appeared as a handsome young man with chestnut hair and deep green eyes, dressed in flowing black robes that appeared to be made of misty darkness. His lips curled in a teasing smile. “Ophelia is indisposed. Actually, I disposed of her. You’re too ripe for the picking, and I like that.”

            He was handsome and grinning and Dorian had been wanting so badly for so long. The young man reached out and cupped Dorian’s cheek in his hand; it was warm and substantial and Dorian closed his eyes and savored the gentle caress. “I can give you more than she ever could,” he breathed into Dorian’s ear. “Power. Money. Happiness.” He drew closer with each word until he was straddling Dorian’s lap. He sat down and Dorian put his arms around his waist. “Belonging,” he whispered, touching his forehead to Dorian’s.

            Dorian wanted so badly to belong. But to belong… he had to ignore… something. Someone.

            Himself.

            He jumped up and pushed the demon away. “Stay away,” he said, breathing hard. “Happiness. Belonging. Yes, I want both of those,” he said. “More than anything, but they’ll mean nothing if I am not myself. And I won’t be myself so long as you possess me, demon,” he spat.

            “Why do you deny yourself?” the desire demon asked, pouting.

            Dorian closed his eyes. “I don’t deny myself,” he said. “I know who I am and what I want.”

            “Then let me give you want you want!”

            “I want to remain unpossessed, thank you,” Dorian said. “Be gone.”

            The demon leveled a smoldering green gaze at him. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll do so. But this won’t be our last meeting. Just so you know that I mean you no harm, I’ll give you one gift with no strings attached.”

            “There are always strings,” Dorian said.

            “You really should get some rest. You’re becoming irritable,” the demon said. He waved his hand in front of Dorian’s face. “Sleep, my lovely one,” he said before disappearing.

            Dorian fell into a black and dreamless sleep.

            He woke slowly, as if climbing up out of a well. He felt heavy and wondered if he’d been drugged with magebane again. But someone was shaking him. He forced his eyes open and tried to focus his blurred vision. “Dor? Are you awake?” asked the worried voice.

            Dor. The only person who called him that was Felix. But Felix was away, back in Minrathous, and he was… not in Minrathous. He focused on smooth whiskey-colored skin, dark, worried eyes, white teeth biting on a perfectly curving lip… Relenus. And with him was the First Enchanter. “Good morning,” he said, sitting up and running his hand through his hair. He had no idea how he looked, and was rather embarrassed to have Relenus see him like this. “I thought I’d lie down for a nap,” he explained.

            “Dorian, you’ve been asleep for two days,” the First Enchanter said worriedly. “Are you quite well?”

            “I… wanted to take a nap,” Dorian repeated, furrowing his brow in thought. “I guess… I must be tired from… from practicing,” he said, careful to avoid Relenus’s gaze. “The late nights and early mornings are catching up with me, it would seem.” He gave a crooked smile. “Perhaps we might chat later, though,” he said to the First Enchanter. “For now, I think I’d like some breakfast.”

            He assured Relenus that he was quite well and would meet up with him later on. He kept smiling, but inside he was a storm of worry. The demon had given him the rest he needed, but nothing came without a price. Also, he hated having Relenus see him like this, and he hated _wanting_ Relenus to see him like this, and imagining the comfort the other man might provide if only… if only.

            Dorian washed and dressed and then headed to the First Enchanter’s offices without stopping for any food. His concern made him too nauseous to eat.

            “The demons are quite busy of late,” the First Enchanter confirmed when Dorian explained his issues. “There are whispers of things out in the Free Marches. The Grey Wardens have been concerned, and Kirkwall has been tearing itself apart since the Qunari uprising. We’re standing on a precipice,” he said.

            “Even here in Tevinter?” Dorian asked.

            “Especially in Tevinter. The Imperium would like to believe it is isolated from the cares and concerns of the south, but what happens to mages there will affect mages everywhere,” he said. “They may look to us to learn how to set up a magocracy, and what will they see?”

            Dorian chuckled. “A lot of pretty people who can’t do a damned thing for themselves without slaves and magic?”

            The First Enchanter laughed loudly. “So young to be so cynical. Though I suppose you have more reasons than most,” he said, and Dorian felt the blood pool in his feet. “Your father’s methods are harsh. But you are resilient, yet. Don’t let him break you.”

            “It would give him too much satisfaction,” Dorian managed to say, relieved that his secret was still safe. “Perhaps that is why I’ve been so plagued by a desire demon,” he said. “I’ve wanted him to accept me so badly for so long. And now I’ve been so tired that I’m vulnerable.” It was mostly the truth, and as good a place to work from as any.

            The First Enchanter leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips on the armrest. “Did you know that in the southern Circles they don’t teach their mages to confront demons?” he asked. Dorian shrugged. “They put their apprentices through something they call a Harrowing. The name is quite apt,” he said with a slight sneer. “A mage is sent into the Fade alone to confront a demon, untrained and unsupervised, while encircled by templars ready to kill the mage if he or she fails in the confrontation.”

            Dorian shuddered. “That’s… it’s not fair,” he said at last. “The first time I went into the Fade I met a demon. We chatted and ate grapes before he tried to possess me. I said no and walked away.”

            “But what if you’d said yes?”

            “I wouldn’t have, because I knew it was a demon in the Fade. I’d been taught to handle it.”

            The First Enchanter stared Dorian down. “I think you may need to handle this.”

            “How?” Dorian asked, frustrated. He’d been _trying_ to handle it most of his life. “What, go into the Fade and kill the thing on its plain of existence?” He’d thrown out the suggestion on a lark, but didn’t expect the First Enchanter to be staring at him expectantly. He laughed, but he was truly nervous. He’d learned to deal with demons, not destroy them. But if it would stop them from trying to possess him… maybe it was worth a try. He sighed. “I’ll do it,” he said simply.

            “Good.” The First Enchanter brought him to the antechamber with the lyrium basin. Unlike Alexius’s lyrium den, this room was small and comfortable and Dorian felt at ease. “I will not follow you, but I will be here if I am needed.”

            “What, no sword of mercy through my heart if I’m possessed?” Dorian asked with a nervous laugh.

            “No. Because you won’t be possessed.”

            Dorian took a deep breath, a dose of lyrium, and lay back on a chaise. He thought it might take some time to slip into the Fade after his long sleep, but the denizens of the in-between were waiting for him. It only took a moment for his desire demon to appear. “Did you sleep well, love?” he asked immediately, lips curling into a smile. His eyes were deep green, as mysterious and endless as the Fade itself.

            “I did, no thanks to you,” Dorian said. “I wish I could say I appreciated it, but I don’t.”

            He pouted. “All I did was give you what you wanted.”

            Dorian shook his head. “No. What I want… what I _desire,_ is for you to leave me alone.” Here in the Fade the magic was all around him and he didn’t have to reach inside, but rather to the air in front of him. His palm glowed white-purple with electricity. “Leave me. For good.”

            The handsome young man’s green eyes began to glow. His black robes swirled about him like a storm, and his face contorted as if Dorian’s words pained him. He reached out with long arms, and Dorian fired the lightning at him. There were voices in his mind: his father; Felix; Relenus; Alexius. People Dorian had wanted love and acceptance from. People for whom he’d give anything, even himself…

            But then there was the First Enchanter, who’d never asked him to be anyone or anything other than Dorian. He was there, somewhere in the Fade, not fighting beside or for Dorian, but letting Dorian know he was there.

            Dorian drew on all his mana reserves and pulled the lyrium through his body and let it all flow into his hands. A tight ball of condensed electricity glowed in his cupped palms. He glowered at the demon and smiled. “I’m done asking,” he said. “You _will_ leave me.” He pushed out and the ball of lightning slammed into the demon. The demon screamed and writhed and Dorian reached for the spirits that attended to him. They floated out of his peripheral vision and swarmed upon the crackling demon and he turned away and headed back toward consciousness.

            He opened his eyes. He was staring at the dark wood panels in the First Enchanter’s den. His hand glowed a faint blue where he’d dipped it into the lyrium. He was alone, but he felt light and relaxed. He’d faced down his demon and won—for now. He got to his feet; he didn’t have the same off balance feelings he’d had of late, and he felt like he could even see more clearly.

            Dorian looked around, but the First Enchanter was not in his office. He headed out into the hallway where mages of the Circle were cheering and laughing and hustling to and fro.

            “Dorian! Did you hear?” Relenus nearly knocked him over, and grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him. His dark eyes were sparkling and his lips curved in an excited smile.

            “I’ve been in the Fade,” Dorian said, looking around at the excitement and painfully aware of Relenus’s warm hands on his shoulders. “What’s happened? Did we beat the Qunari finally?”

            Relenus shook his head, his mop of glossy dark hair flopping onto his forehead. “No, but almost as good. A messenger came from Kirkwall an hour ago. An apostate blew up the Chantry there. With their Grand Cleric inside.”

            Dorian furrowed his brow. “How is blowing up a building and killing a cleric a good thing, again?” he asked.

            Relenus’s smile faltered. “Don’t you see? The southern mages will have to rebel now. This is the start of something big for mages all over.”

            Dorian thought about his father, trying to hold onto him so tightly all he was doing was driving him away, driving him toward self-discovery and the freedom to just be himself, and how close he was getting to that. He dared to glance up into Relenus’s eyes. “I see. Sometimes, rebellion isn’t only good. It’s necessary.”


	12. Judgment

_Chapter 12: Judgment_

 

            The celebration about Kirkwall went on far longer than Dorian found tasteful, even by Tevinter standards. While many of his peers lamented that they weren’t in Minrathous to celebrate what they called “the beginning of the end” for southern Circles, Dorian was actually glad to be tucked away in Vyrantium. He could only imagine the blood flowing in the homes of Magisters in Minrathous. He wished his imagination were not so vivid.

            People were still drinking and throwing raucous parties when Satinalia rolled around, which was all the more reason for drinking and parties—and probably some sacrifices and carousing in the Fade, as well. Dorian tucked himself away in corners of the library where few people would find him. The place was nearly deserted to begin with, thanks to the frenzy in the streets. He focused on reading anything he could get his hands on, anything to take his mind off of the fact that with Satinalia came his name day.

            Every year his parents had thrown extravagant celebrations of their only child’s birth. He wasn’t expecting much this year. They never wrote, never called on him, and only his resourcefulness and reputation kept him from being a complete pauper in a Circle filled with other wealthy mages. He didn’t like to admit it, but at this time of the year he did miss his family. Even the years he’d been in Minrathous they’d marked the occasion somehow. He carefully coached himself each day to feel no emotion over it; to smile brightly, to pretend that it was just another day.

            Still, he wasn’t prepared to wake up that morning feeling empty and alone. He stared at the ceiling for a long while trying to decide if he felt any different, any older, and he decided he didn’t. It was just another day. He spent it in his quiet library corner to avoid anyone who might remind him that it wasn’t. He didn’t look up when he heard footsteps, and especially remained focused on his book when someone sat down across from him.

            “I’m reading, Relenus,” he said without lifting his eyes.

            “You’re always reading. It’s time to get out and live a bit,” Relenus said, reaching for Dorian’s book. Dorian pulled out of reach and glanced up. Relenus was grinning and dressed in green and gold brocade that made his eyes look almost greenish, despite how dark they were.

            “I’d rather not, but thanks,” Dorian said with a forced smile as he looked back to the book. The words were all a jumble and he couldn’t focus anyway, but he was getting quite good at pretending.

            Relenus sighed and all but jumped across the table and snatched the book from Dorian’s hands. He slammed it shut and shoved it down to the other end of the long table. “No. You’re done avoiding people. And me,” he added with a smirk. “Come on.”

            “I was reading that,” Dorian said, crossing his arms over his chest.

            “No, you weren’t. Look, I know how you feel about the Kirkwall thing, but surely you’re not opposed to Satinalia?” Relenus pouted. “You’ve avoided every party. And if it’s because you don’t know what to wear, you can borrow something of mine.”

            The chance to be alone with Relenus in his room, perusing his wardrobe, was so tempting to Dorian that he couldn’t help but smile. And Relenus’s mock pout was too endearing. “Today is my name day,” he finally confessed. “My parents surely have remembered, but are sending me a message by pretending they’ve forgotten, and I’d rather sit and sulk in the mires of academia.”

            Relenus’s face lit up. “Your name day? No, I won’t let you spend it alone up here. Come into town. We’ll drink until we can barely stand, then we’ll drink some more. We’ll be so drunk we’ll each wake up with _two_ hangovers, and then they’ll fight!”

            Dorian laughed. “I may be getting too old for that,” he said, though he was only twenty-four.

            “It’s my treat and I insist,” Relenus said, grabbing him by the hand and all but dragging him out of the library.

            As it turned out two hangovers having a fight was not as fun as Relenus made it sound. Dorian would have traded a week of seasickness for the one night Relenus had given him. But when the worst of the vomiting was over, and he was just praying for the room to stop spinning, Relenus let Dorian sleep in his bed while he passed out on the floor next to him with a pile of pillows and blankets. Soon Relenus was snoring softly and Dorian closed his eyes and tried to rest.

            The sun slanted through the window and woke him up hours later. Relenus was still sleeping in his nest on the floor, and for Dorian, the room had stopped spinning. His head was pounding and his stomach burned, but he’d never felt more content. What would it be like to live with someone who took care of him like this, and to whom he could repay the favor?

            He stifled his laughter in Relenus’s pillow, which smelled sweet and vaguely spicy. He was still drunk; there was no other way to explain these thoughts. Such a thing would never happen. It couldn’t ever happen. Maybe in another place, another life; but not here in Tevinter.

            Dorian extricated himself from the tangle of sheets and carefully climbed off the bed and over Relenus. It was harder than it should have been owing to the fact the room began to move like a ship on the sea when he tried to get his legs under him. He stumbled to the door and peered out in the halls before leaving. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing him and having rumors starting about Relenus. The man deserved better than that. Dorian would not let his own tastes be a friend’s downfall.

            He clung to a wall and took the long way back to his room, partly to throw people off his trail, but partly because he must have been a masochist. He made it, and before collapsing into bed he threw up again; then he placed privacy wards around the room. He shoved the pile of things off his bed: clothing, a couple books, papers, and a letter in a thick envelope with his name on it in glossy black ink. He didn’t remember it being there last night, but then again, he didn’t remember much about last night. He’d read it later. Right now he had a hangover to continue sleeping off.

            It was at least another day before he got around to clearing up the mess in his room, and he spent most of that day avoiding Relenus. He sent a short note with a slave: _Thank you for your kindness,_ he wrote, and left it at that. He crumpled up other papers to toss in the waste bin and came across the thick cream-colored envelope with his name on it. He opened it and found a letter inside, written on the same fine parchment.

 

_Dearest Dorian,_

_Your father and I miss you very much and wish for you to take a short leave from your studies in Vyrantium to visit. It has been a long time since we’ve seen you, and we wish to catch up with you and learn more about your work. Also, your name day will likely pass before you receive this letter, and we would like to acknowledge the date, albeit it belatedly. Please come as soon as you are able._

_With love,_

_Aquinea Pavus_

 

            Dorian had to reread the letter several times before he could think about it. He’d always assumed his mother deferred to his father in all matters; she’d used ‘we’, but signed it herself, and it was in her handwriting. He was stubborn and proud, but he also missed his mother. And maybe his father was finally willing to listen.

            It didn’t take much to get leave to go to Qarinus; the First Enchanter was actually pleased that Dorian’s parents were reaching out and encouraged the meeting. Dorian was in a carriage that very afternoon. He figured he’d only be gone for a few days, so he hadn’t said anything to Relenus. Besides, after the way he’d ended up a few nights ago, perhaps some distance wasn’t a bad idea. He spent the trip reading, mostly; sometimes he stared out the window, absently playing with his amulet. His father hadn’t asked for it back or tried to take it. Perhaps they would make amends with this visit.

            He hadn’t been prepared for the surge of bitterness he felt as the coach pulled up to the estate. The last time Dorian had been home he’d been dragged inside in chains, against his will. He paid the driver and stood out in front for a long time in the warm breeze. Now that he was here he wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. No one came out to greet him, and when he tried the door it was locked. So like a visitor, he pulled on the bell string and waited.

            Much to his surprise Halward himself answered the door. “Father,” Dorian said with a slight bow. His mouth was dry, but his palms were sweaty. He hadn’t seen Halward in nearly a year. He was still as imperious as ever, always looking down on his son even though they were the same height. “I hope you’re well,” he said. “Mother sent for me.”

            “I am aware,” Halward said. He stepped back. “Please, come in. We weren’t expecting you so quickly,” he said.

            “How kind of you to invite me. Do you have templars stationed nearby in case I decide I’d like to leave of my own volition?” Dorian asked. Perhaps it was not the best beginning.

            “No, they’re all busy in the south these days,” Halward said, accepting the barb gracefully. “Otherwise, I probably would.” He was smiling, but Dorian had no doubt that he was not joking. He didn’t trust his father, and wasn’t sure if he ever would. Dorian took a deep breath and followed his father into the estate. “Honestly, your mother and I weren’t sure you’d come,” Halward said. “She will be pleased that you did.”

            “And are you?” Dorian asked.

            Halward turned to face his son. “Yes. Thank you for coming. I see you made a staff of your own. You’ll have to tell me about it later, as well as what you’ve been doing in Vyrantium.”

            “A good deal of studying,” Dorian said. “It’s amazing, but being cut off financially has done wonders for my research.”

            Halward sighed, but he did not apologize nor did he address it. “Come. Sit. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” he asked. They headed into the formal sitting room. It had been redone _again_ since Dorian had last been home, but he didn’t mind; he had little desire to remember the house the way it was at that time. Halward held out his hand to the hearth and a fire sprang up in the fireplace.

            Dorian narrowed his eyes and clutched his staff as he sat on the edge of a chair, ready to spring up and run if he needed. “What are you playing at, father?” he asked. “Even before you started hating me you were never this attentive.”

            Halward blinked. “Hate you? Dorian, you’re my son. I could never hate you.”

            Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You have a funny way of showing that.”

            “You are my only child. My legacy. My hope. I only want what’s best for you. You’re a willful young man and you’ve tested my limits as a father.   But I do not hate you. I am… sorry you’ve felt that way.”

            Dorian’s father had never been sorry for anything in his life. Something was amiss. “Where’s mother?” Dorian asked, rather than try to acknowledge anything his father was saying. “I think I’d like to see her.”

            “She’s resting. She’s… felt ill of late,” Halward said. “But she will be glad you’ve arrived. I’ll send for her.”

            “Is that why you called me home?” Dorian asked, his stomach clenching up. “Is Mother dying?” She’d never been particularly close or nurturing, but Aquinea was his mother, and the thought of her dying filled him with terror. Without his mother, there would be no one to buffer the rough edges between Dorian and Halward.

            “No,” Halward said. “Like your mother said in her letter, we just wished to see you and discuss things. It’s been a long time with little communication.”

            “With no communication,” Dorian corrected, and his father nodded.

            “Tell me about your work in Vyrantium then,” Halward said while they waited for Aquinea. “Are you finding it more rewarding than life in Minrathous?”

            “Much more,” Dorian said. No sense hiding the truth. “I’m finally making progress on my Necromancy studies.” He didn’t explain how, exactly. His father approved of the school of Necromancy, but may not approve of the ways in which Dorian had to study. “I’ve also been perfecting my primal school skills…” He looked up when he heard his mother approach.

            Aquinea smiled. “My Dorian,” she said. “It’s so lovely to see you.” Dorian stood and she approached and hugged him. She felt thinner than usual, her shoulders narrow in his hug. She held him out at arms’ length. “What a splendid young man you’ve become,” she said. She was paler than was normal, and her eyes were a little glassy. She took a seat on the settee beside her son. “So handsome, so powerful. You will produce marvelous heirs.” She patted his thigh and smiled.

            “Not this again,” Dorian said, gripping his staff tightly. “I’ve told you, I’ve no interest in marrying. So what family will I be disappointing this time?”

Halward glanced at his wife, who nodded. “Your mother and I have been talking about what we must do,” he said. “We are both past childbearing, so the Pavus legacy cannot continue that way. We’ve decided that it’s time for us to be proactive and avoid anymore social missteps.”

“Proactive.” Dorian was still gripping his staff as he looked between his parents.

“You cannot keep lying to us or to yourself anymore,” Halward said. “Say it, Dorian.”

Dorian’s heart pounded. His father’s dark eyes glowered at him. His mother’s clutch dug into his thigh. He thought of Lepidus and Felix and now Relenus, and of the whore he’d bought in Orlais for that one night of pleasure. He thought of his vow to feel no more fear. “I haven’t been lying to myself,” he said. “Nor to you or anyone else. I’ve been honest about myself this whole time; it’s you who won’t listen.” If possible, steam would be rolling out his father’s ears. He smiled, but still sat alert and clutched his staff. “But will it make it easier for you if you hear me say it?”

Halward’s nostrils flared and Dorian pushed his mother’s hand off of him. The cuff of her robe moved and he caught a flash of a white bandage, bright red at the edge. He narrowed his eyes and met his father’s gaze. He swallowed the lump in his throat and quelled the fear making stomach turn. “Fine. I prefer the company of men. Are you happy now that I’ve admitted your worst fears?” he spat.

His father closed his eyes. His mother’s breath caught in a funny little half-sob. “I’m not a murderer or a rapist,” he said. “I’m not even a thief. I’m a valuable and productive member of a Circle. How can my preferences negate all the good I’m trying to do?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch. “So what is it now? The last resort you’ve been holding over my head the last four years?”

            The moment he asked he regretted it. His father’s steady gaze and unwavering posture said everything Dorian feared, before the words were even spoken. Aquinea stood and went to sit beside her husband and they both stared Dorian down. “We’ve thought of everything, Dorian. And there’s nothing else to be done,” his father said. “This family cannot die out, and if this is what must be done…”

            Dorian looked between his parents. His mother wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were imploring him to listen to his father. Halward had produced a small, shiny and curving knife and she held out her other wrist, confirming his fears. “No!” Dorian shouted, springing forward and knocking the blade from his father’s hand. His mother shrieked and Halward swore. “This is your last resort?” he asked, incredulous.

            “You cannot keep running from your destiny, Dorian,” his father said calmly. He hadn’t gone for the knife yet.

            “Maybe my destiny is different from what you think it is,” Dorian said.

            “Or maybe it is exactly what I think it is, and you insist on being a deviant who brings no credit to this family—only rumors and shame. So long as you behave this way, you are no son of mine.”

            It was worse than a slap, and he staggered back. “Blood magic? You want to control me?” Both of his parents were staring at him, waiting. “You want to… you want to _change_ me.” He felt around with his magic, panicked that perhaps his father really did have templars stationed around the house, but felt nothing. Then again, why would Halward need templars if he had blood magic? His parents kept staring. The room felt like it was closing in.

            “You would bleed my mother… your _wife_ dry because I’d prefer to fuck a man?” Dorian asked in a shaking voice.

            “I understand what’s at stake, Dorian,” she said. “I am willing to do what is necessary if it means prolonging the family bloodline.”

            “So the answer to your question is yes, Dorian,” Halward said quietly. He’d found the knife again, and drew the blade over the palm of his hand. “Your mother and I will give our own blood if it means making you right.” He extended his bloody palm to his son, beckoning him closer.

            The pull of the blood was stronger than anything Dorian had felt before. It called to him and made him feel fuzzy and pleasant and blank. How nice not to have to think of anything; not to have to put up a front, to just give in and do what people asked of him…

            “Fuck you straight to the Void,” he snapped, slamming his staff into the ground and pulling from the Fade. Darkness came forth, swirling from his staff into the shape of a dark violet skull with glowing eyes. “If your love for me is conditional upon whom I choose to love, then I don’t _want_ to be your son.” He swung out his staff and the skull seemed to explode in a hail of darkness that left his parents panicked and terrified.

            He ran faster and harder than he’d ever run before. He scooped up his bag from the main hall and ran out the door into the night. He ran into the city of Qarinus, which was darkened and quiet at this hour but for the sounds of his feet on the cobblestones. He was truly alone, completely on his own now. He kept running, even when his side ached and his lungs burned and the countryside was unfamiliar. He just ran until he couldn’t run any more, and then in spite of his fatigue he cast a Haste spell to buy himself more time.

            _No son of mine._ The words echoed in his ears as he fought back the anger and the tears. He failed and was left gasping and choking. He had no plan. No money. No direction. It was his first escape attempt all over again, only that time he’d had a choice. Now that his father had revealed his hand and shown his true last resort, Dorian had no choice.

            The Tevinter Imperium had always been home, always been a refuge.

            No longer.


	13. Ten of Wands

_Chapter 13: Ten of Wands_

 

            The merchant pursed his lips and held the amulet up close, examining the wrought gold and gems with a tiny glass tube pressed against his eye. Dorian folded his arms over his chest and clenched his hands into fists as he watched the man paw at his birthright amulet. Part of him wanted to hold onto it, a reminder of who he was. However, he was pretty much disowned and disinherited; he had no hope for any financial support from home, and he couldn’t bring himself to write to Felix for help. Besides, he didn’t want anyone knowing where he was. And as his staff was necessary to his survival, he had to sell the only other thing of value he possessed.

            Dorian watched the man, Ponchard, and tapped his food impatiently. He’d managed to elude templars thus far in Val Royeaux, but he wasn’t keen on pushing his luck. In fact as soon as he had the coin, he planned to move again. He sighed. “Solid gold, real diamonds and emeralds. And it’s an authentic Tevinter birthright emblem. It will get you into places you simply won’t ever access without one.”

            Ponchard glanced up at Dorian, his thin mustache quivering just under the edge of his simple gold mask. Everything about the man suggested he was an opportunistic upstart; even growing up Tevinter, Dorian could see right through to the insecure core of the little Orlesian man. It was almost painful realizing he had to sell his birthright to begin with, but it was like having his intestines ripped out to be selling it to this weasel. “I don’t doubt your word, _monsieur_. Though I’d need to check on the current selling prices of gold. The burgeoning war between the mages and the templars…”

            “Is only burgeoning,” Dorian interrupted. He was getting impatient, but he also wanted the transaction to be finished. The sooner he was parted from the amulet the sooner he could have the coin to keep moving; and the sooner he could fully sever ties from his family. They’d track the amulet thinking to track him, and find Ponchard instead. “Remember. You’re not just paying for the gold and gems,” he said, trying not to sound desperate. “You’re paying to do business in the name of House Pavus, one of the most influential and powerful bloodlines in the Imperium.”

            “If it is so influential, one wonders why you would be parting with something of such value,” Ponchard said.

            Dorian sighed. “I’ll take it elsewhere since you don’t seem keen on doing actual business,” he said, reaching out for the amulet, but Ponchard held it out of reach. It made Dorian inexplicably angry. “The sale’s not made, let alone finalized,” he said, clenching his jaw. “It’s not your property as of yet, so I’d suggest that, unless you plan to purchase, you return it to me.”

            Ponchard started at Dorian, his mask making his eyes unreadable, but his lip quivered. He was no good at playing the Game, which was disappointing. Even a Tevinter such as Dorian could play better. Dorian held up his hand and a small ball of lightning coalesced and crackled in his palm. He balanced it there and stared at Ponchard expectantly. He had no respect for his father any longer; but Halward had the expectant, disappointed stare down to an art form and Dorian had learned to replicate it perfectly over the years.

            “Fine, fine, _monsieur_ Magister,” Ponchard said with a sigh. He began to count coin out of his wall safe, muttering in Orlesian the whole time.

            “I’m not a Magister,” Dorian corrected him. “Just a mage from Tevinter.”

            Ponchard handed over two bags of coin. “And now you are no one. At least, you can’t prove that you are anyone,” he hastily added, seeing Dorian’s glowing palm and gulping at the sound of electric crackling when Dorian glared at him.

            Dorian just nodded politely, not trusting himself to speak. The weight of coin in his hands was more useful than the guilty weight of the amulet around his neck. But at the same time he realized that he’d now officially severed all ties with his family and divested himself of their influence. He should have felt happy about his defiance; but it just made him feel sad all over again.

            _No son of mine_. Halward had gone from, “You’re my son and I love you,” to “You are no son of mine,” in just minutes. It still mystified Dorian that something so insignificant could cause so much fear and hatred in his father. But Halward had made his choice; Dorian’s choice was self-preservation at this point.

            Tevinter had always been a land of mages; occasionally southern mages had even made for the Imperium when running from templars. Dorian had always thought it would be home. He was a powerful mage and at one time it was speculated he’d be the youngest Altus to take a seat in the Magisterium, or even the youngest Archon in history, and now even Tevinter wasn’t safe for him. “Enjoy your new privileges,” he said over his shoulder to Ponchard as he left the shady little shop in Val Royeaux’s summer market.

            The sun was out and reflecting off the pale stone walkways and buildings, and the thoroughfare was bustling with masked courtiers giggling and chatting, but the air felt thick with tension. It was as if the whole city itself were wearing a mask, trying to delude itself of the trouble roiling outside its walls.

            It was the first time Dorian had had more than a few coppers or silvers to his name in months. He’d been holding off selling the amulet, but each passing day tensions between Orlesian mages and templars escalated. It was like living in a keg of gaatlok and firing off primal spells. He had to resist the urge to spend it all at once outfitting himself in something more presentable. He did, however, feel that he’d earned a better meal than what he had been eating of late, so he settled at an outdoor café and ordered wine and a light lunch. Sitting in the sun, sipping Orlesian wine, he could almost pretend he belonged here.

            Really, he was thinking of where to go next, especially now that he had the means to get there. He’d heard the hushed whispers, seen the furtive glances whenever the topic of the White Spire came up. He’d felt the nervous gazes as he walked by with his staff, a mage living openly in the seat of the southern Chantry. Only his Tevinter birthright, worn brazenly in the open, protected him.

            Further south was out of the question in the current state of affairs. Moving east took him too close to Kirkwall, which he’d heard was still in a tumult nearly a year after the Chantry explosion. North meant going back to Tevinter, and he was certain he’d be stopped at the border and hauled back to his waiting father again, and probably a forced wedding to Livia Hirithinous, his father’s most recent marriage choice. Dorian would rather die than give Halward that satisfaction.

            Dorian wished he could sneak back to Vyrantium. Relenus had to be wondering what had happened to him… or maybe not, maybe it was wishful thinking. At least the First Enchanter would wonder. But at this point, and knowing Halward and the far reach of his arm, Dorian was certain he’d be unwelcome even at his home Circle. And even if he had been welcomed, Halward would be sure to catch up with him there.

            He sighed and stirred his soup. There was one place he could go, one place that supposedly welcomed all, criminals and nobles alike. But he’d never heard of Tevinters being welcomed. There was a first time for everything, he supposed.

 

* * *

 

            Dorian hadn’t been able to find a coach willing to travel so close to the Imperium’s border, so he spent more money than he’d wanted to part with buying a horse. It was an Orlesian Courser, more delicate than the horses of neighboring Ferelden, but still not the lithe mounts of Antiva or the Imperium. Dorian had learned to ride at a young age, and though it had been long since he’d last ridden, he took to the saddle easily and headed northwest.

            He forgot how long it took to reacclimate himself to riding and at the end of the first day he was so sore he didn’t think he’d be able to ever ride again. But the next day he gritted his teeth and swing himself into the saddle, and did the same thing the day after that. By the end of the first week he was comfortable riding and hardly sore at all.

            The further west he rode the more barren the landscape became. Rolling grassy fields gave way to cracked earth and scrub brush, then to nothing. The sun was hot in a cloudless sky and the dry, whipping wind chapped his cheeks and the grit got in his eyes. But still Dorian pressed onward. He was hot and miserable, and did not want to imagine the places he probably had sand. He tried to remember the alternative: magically altered, mindless, married to a woman of his father’s choosing, producing good little mage heirs that he would be expected to control as well.

            He’d take a windy desert just south of the Anderfels any day.

            Two days later he saw the walls of Weisshaupt Fortress rising over the horizon. Felix had been to Hossberg before, and had told Dorian of seeing Weisshaupt on the way. The walls were expansive and high even from this distance; the fortress was carved right into the side of a mountain that rose up over the windswept plains. His breath caught in his throat as he realized just how much it reminded him of a prison, and hoped that he wasn’t exchanging one life of servitude for another.

            It took another few hours to ride down the road leading to the impressive fortress. With each mile the walls grew higher and the road darker as the sun dipped behind the mountain fortress to cast shadows upon the road. Dorian just walked his horse; the poor animal was hot and tired, and water was hard to come by in this wasteland region of Thedas; also, he had no desire to hasten the impending confrontation.

            Twilight was descending when he finally reached the first gate, set deep into the outer wall. “Good evening,” he said pleasantly to the first blue-uniformed gate guard he saw. “I was wondering if I might join you.”

            The guard looked to the other guard stationed with him. “Your accent’s Tevinter.”

            Dorian smiled, well aware that he was bedraggled and windblown and sunburned, but he was still a well-bred Altus mage. “And yours is slightly Orlesian. But I’ve ridden a long way and avoided a fair share of troubles, and would like to speak with a recruiting officer, if you have such a thing?”

            The two looked at each other and then shrugged before opening the gate. Dorian rode through. Anyone could say what they wanted about the strange insular nature of the Grey Wardens, but they were relatively hospitable when visited on their own territory. His horse was led to the stables to be watered and groomed, and he was brought to a meeting chamber inside the outer keep. Another blue-clad Warden brought him water, which he sipped slowly in spite of his thirst.

            _Manners, Dorian,_ he reminded himself. _Keep up appearances, even here. You’re not_ that _desperate yet._

            He heard the door creak and he turned, leaning on his staff. The Warden who entered was another mage. She had smooth skin the color of tea with a bit of milk in it, and shrewd golden brown eyes, that, in spite of their color, were cool. “I am Jeannique,” she said in a thick Rivaini accent, and tossed her long dark braid over her shoulder. “I meet with those who wish to join our ranks of their own volition.”

            Join. Dorian swallowed and smiled. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to be a Grey Warden. But it was one place where his father could never touch him again, and one place where he’d be assured a decent living. Sure, he’d die an early death underground fighting darkspawn; and he probably looked lousy in blue--at least this shade of it. But the tradeoff could be worth it. “Yes. I’ve run aground of some trouble and I’ve always understood the Wardens to be a haven for those in my position.”

            Jeannique outright sneered at him. “In peace, vigilance,” she said and Dorian was surprised she didn’t spit on him. “You think because the fifth Blight ended we are little more than a haven for criminals?”

            “I’m hardly a criminal,” Dorian countered. Tattered, tired, troubled, maybe, but he’d committed no crime other than being true to himself. If that was a crime, he would gladly bear his punishment.

            She grunted. “You’re Tevinter.”

            “Last I checked, that was merely frowned upon in greater Thedas,” he said with a sigh. “Not an actual crime.” Jeannique leaned against the closed door, arms crossed over her chest, still watching him. “Ah, I see,” he said, leaning against a wall and matching her posture. “The old ‘Tevinter Magisters started the Blights’ bit. Surely I don’t look _that_ old?” he asked with a smirk. “I’m not even a Magister, if that helps,” he added after a brief pause.

            Jeannique sighed. “Do you ever stop talking?” she asked.

            “Only once. It wasn’t pleasant.”

            “Tell me why you’ve left the Imperium.” She took a seat and gestured for Dorian to do the same. Dorian explained as much as he felt comfortable telling a complete stranger, which wasn’t very much. But he’d gotten so good at telling half-truths that the words rolled off his tongue as earnestly as if they were entirely real.

            “You should also know that I was living in Minrathous two years ago when Grey Wardens paid us a visit,” he said casually and Jeannique’s head snapped up. “They were asking about, looking for information. Something about the Vimmark Mountains.”

            She lunged across the table and held a dagger to his neck. He kept his expression neutral and calm, though his heart was pounding. “What do you know about the Vimmark Mountains?” she growled.

            He held up his hands in a sign of peace. “Nothing more than they’re located outside of Kirkwall. But I was studying with a powerful Magister at the time and I made it a point to listen carefully to all that went on around me. And from your reaction I’m guessing that skill was a useful one.”

            Jeannique sheathed her dagger and slid back into her seat. “It’s been a very long time since we’ve had a Tevinter in our ranks,” she finally said.

            “So I gather.”

            “I cannot promise that you will join the order. But I think the First Warden might be interested in what you know about Tevinter’s involvement in this.”

            The Imperium itself had no involvement that Dorian knew of; his knowledge was limited entirely to the Venatori’s actions. But technically the Venatori were Tevinter, which meant Tevinter was involved. So he nodded his thanks and bowed slightly and gratefully accepted the offer of a small room normally reserved for visiting dignitaries. It was a start.

            Days started to go by and Dorian kept to himself; he was a guest, but not a particularly welcome one. No one was overtly hostile, but not particularly friendly, either. It was just like home, and Dorian actually felt calmer than he’d felt since leaving home. He didn’t have to run; just keep up appearances, be smooth, say what he needed to say to continue receiving sanctuary from the Wardens.

            He offered to help translate ancient Tevene texts that were perplexing the Wardens’ scholars. His offer was met with suspicion, but eventually accepted, since the Wardens had no one fluent in modern Tevene, let alone ancient. For his part, Dorian wasn’t fluent in the dead language either; but he was able to recognize enough to use reverse etymology and do some translating. None of what he read meant much of anything; it was the usual drivel about Magisters starting the Blight. At least, since these were in Tevene, it meant that they lacked the usual propaganda slant that such texts had in the south. As such they were slightly more objective, and actually quite interesting reading.

            “You’re useful.” Jeannique had become his unofficial liaison to the Wardens. She never smiled, and only accepted his presence begrudgingly. “We’ve had these texts for a long time.”

            “And never thought to request the assistance of someone who actually knows Tevene,” Dorian said. “I know, I know,” he added quickly. “Tevinters started this mess, so why ally with one, even if it could help your cause?” To that, Jeannique swore in Rivaini and let him be.

            It was good to be learning again. He missed so much about Vyrantium: the First Enchanter, Relenus, privacy, a bath and a warm meal whenever he wanted it… but most of all the time to spend learning and growing in a relaxed atmosphere. There was never any rush in that Circle; learning would happen in its own time. Here, it felt like there was always too much to be done and not enough time to do it, though Dorian never knew to what point, nor what purpose any of this served. The Wardens always seemed to be fighting an arbitrary deadline and it made the whole of Weisshaupt so bloody serious they could hardly take a piss. It was stifling.

            But at least there was no one threatening him with blood magic just yet.

            It was also pleasant, and a relief, to at least be away from the tumult down south. News came from breathless messengers on foam-lathered horses that the White Spire had fallen and the conflict between mages and templars, which had been escalating for the last year, was now full-blown war. Dorian overheard arguments among the Wardens, but the general consensus was that it was not any of their business. They would accept any refugees looking to join, but that was to be the extent of their involvement.

            He had to grin at the irony of it all, though it made him nervous; what would all of this do to Tevinter? He’d proudly accepted his outcast status as soon as he decided to flee his parents’ house. However, the thought of desperate southern mages looking for refuge in the Imperium was anxiety-inducing. He loved the Imperium, but if there was a better cautionary tale of the dangers of excess, he had yet to find it.

            “Have you given any thought to joining the Order?” Jeannique asked him. She stood over Dorian casting a shadow over the Tevinter text he was nearly done translating. “Or is everything still a joke to your kind?”

            “My dear lady,” Dorian said. “I cannot help it if my country is built on a foundation of humor.” Jeannique frowned; she was never quite sure when he was being sarcastic, and Dorian liked to keep her thinking. He had to entertain himself _somehow_ in this place. “Will joining make me so serious that I must deeply contemplate my choice, and the far reaching consequences, of whether to drink white wine, or red?”

            “You don’t understand it at all,” she said, shaking her head, and looking almost sad when she gazed at him. “In war, victory; do you know what must be given to achieve victory? You, from a country that prides itself on power at all costs, without _considering_ the cost. In peace, vigilance; we cannot accept peace as the way of the world. One need only to look to the White Spire to know that. In death, sacrifice. Have you ever given so deeply of yourself for the benefit of others?” Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. Dorian almost felt bad for jesting. “If we are serious here, it is because we know the cost that must be paid and can no longer laugh about it.”

            Dorian nodded. “Then I apologize for my ignorance,” he said, feeling his ears burn with chagrin. “If your beliefs about Tevinter are based in stereotypes, then so are our beliefs about the Wardens. Your Order has a lofty purpose.” Jeannique stared at him. “Perhaps being personally blamed for something that happened a thousand years ago conjures up a sarcastic defense mechanism inside of me,” he explained.

            “Perhaps.” She blinked away her tears. But for the slight flush in her cheeks she was stoic and staid again. “I suppose my reason for asking is that the Wardens aren’t in the habit of retaining people who don’t join. We have our secrets and don’t wish to part with them to someone outside of our ranks. Especially…”

            “Especially a Tevinter,” Dorian finished for her. “What you’re saying is I have a choice. Join or leave.” It was the same choice here as anywhere else in his life.

            “Essentially. Your assistance has been valuable; but the Order demands more than assistance. It demands your life, and if you are not willing to give it, then Weisshaupt may not be the best place for you to keep hiding.”

            Dorian smiled and closed his book. “In that case, it is probably for the best that I take my leave.”

            Jeannique nodded, but was fiddling with the end of her braid and wouldn’t look at him. “Your horse will be readied for you, and we will give you what supplies we can, as thanks for your help.”

            “I thank you,” Dorian said, standing and giving a slight bow. He projected nothing but calm, however, he was panicking inside again. Where was he supposed to go now? His only hope was that, as his notions about the Wardens had been shattered, he’d at least given the Wardens pause when it came to Tevinters.

            “Dorian.” He turned to look at Jeannique. “What woke in the Vimmark Mountains a few years ago? Pray, for the sake of all Thedas, that it was defeated.”

            “I’m not exactly the religious sort, but I will do so, for the sake of the Wardens who sheltered me when I needed it,” he said.

            “The mage-templar war is nothing compared to it,” Jeannique said and watched him go.

            The next morning he thanked the Wardens for their hospitality, such as it was, and mounted up his horse. When he’d arrived at Weisshaupt the world had been falling apart; as he left, it was truly broken. Dorian thought he’d had nowhere to go before; now, as he rode out and heard the main gate clang behind him, he felt even more alone than ever.

            He walked the horse down the road. He had no direction and no plan. But at least he was free. That counted for something.

            No. He shook his head and smiled to himself. It counted for everything.


	14. Page of Pentacles

_Chapter 14: Page of Pentacles_

 

            “What are you _doing_ here?” Felix hissed, pulling back the edge of his hood to glance around nervously. “Where have you even been all this time?”

            Dorian laughed. “Where _haven’t_ I been?” It was a non-answer and they both knew it, but it was easier than the truth. “As to your first question, I need information.”

            “And you think I can give it. Dor, you’ve been gone for over two years. Things are getting worse. I’m getting worse. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to last, and the worse I get the more desperate and clinging Father becomes.” Felix ran his hand over his hair, which he now kept cropped close. It made his face look even thinner, and Dorian thought he could see the faint spider web network of veins beneath Felix’s translucent skin.

            “I’m sorry, Felix,” Dorian said, staring at the ground. “I don’t mean to put you in this position. But I’m not sure where else to go, or who else to see.”

            Felix crossed the distance between them and hugged Dorian close. “I’m glad you came, Dor,” he whispered in his ear. “I’ve missed you, and I was afraid for you. I kept wondering if you were dead.”

            “Did my father say that?” Dorian asked, voice dripping with venom.

            “No. He wonders the same thing,” Felix said. His dark eyes swept over Dorian. “You look like shit.”

            “I’ve looked worse,” Dorian admitted.

            Felix slid his pack off his shoulder and handed it to Dorian. “I sneaked through the kitchen on my way out. They were just starting to prep for dinner so I grabbed what I could.”

            “Don’t get yourself into trouble on my account,” he said, but he took the bag.

            “I like trouble,” Felix said with a smile. “And you’re worth the trouble. Come on.” He gestured for Dorian to follow him down another winding alley. It was dusk and overcast, so it was not terribly suspicious for them to have their hoods up. They hurried through the back alleys of Minrathous; some of them boasted no recent architecture to speak of. Dorian swallowed and jogged after Felix, wondering where they were going. He had to trust that his friend would still be loyal. If Felix could not be trusted, then who could?

            “A… brothel,” Dorian said when Felix finally stopped in front of a building in a shadowed cul de sac. Globes of warm red light hung outside of the entry way and the doors were made of heavy dark wood inlaid with frosted glass panes. “Time changes many things, Felix, but not that,” he said with a grin.

            “I know,” Felix said. “But no one will bother us here, and no one would think to look for you in a place filled with beautiful women clamoring to have all the sex a man can pay for.” He was also grinning, and for one moment Dorian felt like he was back years ago, cavorting with his best friend, blissfully unaware of the future in store for them.

            The matron didn’t ask questions; just took Felix’s coin and set them up in a room tucked away on the second floor. Felix locked the door and Dorian cast his signature silencing and privacy wards over the walls, windows and door. He cast a fireball to start a fire on the hearth, and then turned to see Felix collapsed on the bed. “I’m sorry, Felix,” he said. “I didn’t want you to tire on my account.”

            Felix stared at the ceiling. “No worries, Dor. I know… I know I’m not going to get any better. I’m getting far worse, actually. But I’ve accepted that I don’t have a lot of time,” he said quickly. “Stop looking at me like that,” he admonished. “Just sit with me for a bit.”

            Dorian did as Felix asked. He dispensed with custom and laid down next to Felix, who instinctively turned over to rest his head on Dorian’s shoulder. “Do you ever wish things had turned out differently?”

            “All the time,” Dorian said. “I suppose you know why I left Tevinter in the first place?” Felix shook his head and looked up at Dorian through his long lashes. Dorian sighed and told him the story of his parents’ betrayal. Two years had not dulled the ache and he cursed when his voice broke in the telling of it.

            “ _Vishante kaffas,”_ Felix swore. “How could he?”

            “His precious fucking legacy,” Dorian said. “As always. But I need to know where to go next,” he said. “I can’t stay here, and I’m not going to Orlais. I’ve heard about the shitstorm raging down there.”

            “The shitstorm is raging all over Thedas,” Felix said. He wasn’t smiling. “Orlais is completely chaotic and Kirkwall isn’t getting any better, especially since the White Spire fell. Circles all over the south fell right after that.”

            “Good,” Dorian said. “It’s about time they start treating their mages as people and not animals.”

            “We all agree, Dor,” Felix said. “It’s been all over the senate floor.”

            “And all over the Venatori,” Dorian added when Felix paused, unsure of how to go on. “Without their Circles, southern mages have nowhere to go and no sense of how to exist in a world that doesn’t want them. It’s a vacuum of power.”

            “I’ve always been jealous of how smart you are,” Felix said. He rested his hand on Dorian’s chest. “You need to do something about it.”

            Dorian laughed. “Me? Do something?”

            “Who better?” Felix sat up and propped himself on an elbow. “You are one of the most powerful mages to be produced in hundreds of years. You’ve seen the darkest side of the Imperium, and yet possess its best qualities.”

            “You do too,” Dorian protested.

            “You’re also not dying,” Felix said with a grim smile. “I can keep my father’s eyes off of you, but you have to be willing to do this.”

            Dorian stared up at the ceiling, lit by a soft orange-red glow. Lying here, cuddling with Felix, he was aware of just how tired he truly was. It had been a long time since he’d slept in a proper bed, but even longer since he’d had a purpose. “How long did you take this room for?” he asked at last. He was too tired to give an answer just yet.

            “As long as you need it. Sorcha’s a friend,” Felix said.

            “I won’t take advantage of your generosity,” Dorian said. “I’ll stay for a night, maybe two, and then I have to go again.”

            “Take advantage of anything you want,” Felix teased, snuggling into Dorian. “I’ve missed you.”

            “And I, you,” Dorian told him. He had missed his friend; he’d missed Tevinter as well: the humidity, the smells, the sights, the feeling of magic in the air all around him. Sometimes he thought he missed his parents as well; but then he remembered his father’s palm glowing red, blood dripping like garnets from the sliced skin, and the way his mother was crying… and knew he was better off without them.

            He fell asleep fully clothed, on top of the silk covers, his boots still on. He slept deeply. Somehow having Felix with him made him feel safe, as if he was a shield against the Venatori. He didn’t expect Felix to be there when he woke, yet he was, his arm thrown carelessly across Dorian’s torso and his mouth slightly open as he snored quietly. Dorian wondered if he could use Alexius’s time magic to go back, to tell Felix what he really felt, and change things.

            Would he remember who he was and what he’d been through if he went back, though? Was it worth the risk?

            Felix stirred beside him and Dorian quickly scooted over to maintain a respectful distance between them. “I need to go,” he whispered to Felix.

            “So soon?” Felix’s eyes were bleary with sleep, but still wide and he looked on the verge of tears. It broke Dorian’s heart to realize how lonely Felix must be, with only his father keeping a constant vigil over him, and plotting to use time magic to go back and save him from his fate.

            “You’ll be in more trouble than a bag of snacks would have gotten you. It’s morning.” Dorian tried to smile. “Or… Come with me,” he said suddenly, reaching out and resting his hand on Felix’s.

            “We both know that can’t happen,” Felix said. “Physically I’d never make it out of Minrathous.”

            Dorian bit his lip and took a deep breath to quell the tears he felt welling up inside. “I know. But you can hardly fault me for asking.”

            “You know what the Venatori are like,” Felix said. “Better than anyone, because you got away.”

            That had always troubled Dorian, and he figured it was better to ask than be in a state of forever wondering. “Why did you join?” he asked quietly, leaning on his elbow and picking at the silk sheet with his other hand.

            Felix closed his eyes. “I always dreaded you asking me that. But… I was being selfish. My father told me I could be saved if I joined. I was in a dark place and I wanted to live. Four years and I’ve only gotten sicker,” he said with a scowl. “Even father’s getting desperate. He says he joined up to make Tevinter better, but now… now all he thinks about is how my time is running out and how the Venatori are onto something that will change all that.” He leaned in and gave Dorian a kiss on the cheek. “You were made for greater things than skulking around Minrathous alleys, Dor,” he said.

            Dorian got up and smoothed out his clothes and twirled the ends of his mustache. He ran a hand through his wavy hair and picked up his staff and his traveling packs, including the bag Felix had given him. “Yes, I was,” he said with a smile he did not feel.

            “Where will you go?”

            “I’ve always wondered what the ass-end of the world was like,” he said. “I was thinking maybe Kirkwall might be nice this time of year.”

Felix laughed. “Kirkwall isn’t nice _any_ time of the year.”

Dorian started to laugh but stopped and held up his hand to silence his friend. Dorian had worked to perfect his wards over the years, and now could cast a silencing barrier that would allow him to hear what happened outside his doors. Very useful when he felt like being with a male servant, and didn’t want to get caught. Also very useful when he was sneaking around Minrathous with Felix Alexius. “City guard,” he said. He slung the bags over his shoulder and headed for the window.

            “What are you doing?” Felix hissed.

            “I’ve always wanted to make a dashing escape,” Dorian said with a grin as he pushed the window open and climbed up on the ledge. He stepped down only to find there was no trellis. He yelped as he slid down the wall, grabbing at the window ledge and barely catching it with his fingertips. But it was not enough, and he slipped again, the stucco wall scraping up his hands as he tried to catch himself on something, anything.

            He crashed through the branches of a lemon tree; they snagged on his cloak, slowing his decent slightly, but not enough. The ground rushed at him and before he could react he’d landed hard and his leg buckled beneath him. _Fasta vass_ , but it hurt! Dorian clenched his teeth and focused his mana as best he could while in a rush and in pain, and managed to numb the pain; he’d never been much for healing magic, not the way his father did. It would hurt to walk, but it was better than getting caught by the city guards.

            He was scraped up and bleeding and he walked with a limp, but he could use his staff for support. He pulled his hood up over his head and moved out of the brothel courtyard and into another back alley. He headed for the market, thinking to get lost among the crowds. But Dorian had never learned to blend in; from the time he was young he could only stand out.

            “That’s him! The one with the Magister’s son!”

            _Venhedis._ Dorian sighed and kept walking even though his leg pained him. His knuckles were white as he gripped his staff to keep from crying out as much as to support himself as he limped along. A guard grabbed Dorian by the shoulder. “Unhand me,” Dorian snapped, wrenching his arm away. He spun and pointed his staff at the guard. He may have been disowned, but he had still been brought up an Altus mage, and this was Tevinter, where that sort of thing still mattered. He pushed back his hood, and for once in his life was grateful for his resemblance to his father. “How dare you accost me!” he said, channeling magic down his staff, which crackled with lightning.

            Dorian expected an apology, or at least for them to mumble and turn away. But after a stunned moment they all pointed their pikes at him. “Drop your staff,” the lead guard said. “You’re wanted for holding Magister Alexius’s son hostage!”

            “You realize how ridiculous that sounds,” Dorian told the man. He didn’t sound un-ridiculous himself; he was surrounded by pike-wielding, armored guardsmen, he was injured from running and evading them, and he was talking back to them. “If you check the brothel I’m certain you’ll find the young man quite well and ready to go home. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He waited for them to move.

            They didn’t.

            Alexius either knew Dorian was in town, or else he was really paranoid about Felix and his whereabouts. “You are aware there are people watching,” Dorian said. His voice was steady, but inside, his intestines were writhing. He’d never dealt with the guards before; they always stepped aside when an Altus passed by. Then again, he wore nothing to mark himself as such. “It would be most embarrassing for both of us if I have to use my staff in public.”

            “Take him in for questioning,” the guard said simply, and the ring of pikes closed in around him.

            Instinct took over. Dorian felt the Fade around him and his mind reached for the connections it had there. He struck the butt of his staff on the cobblestone pavement and a purple cloud exploded in the shape of a skull. People started screaming; guards were running and yelling, and some cowered, clutching at their helmets while crying. Dorian focused on keeping the terror spell intact as he calmly walked away from the center of the chaos. He donned his hood and ignored the stares of people as he got further from the epicenter of the spell.

            The energy and mana he’d expended in that confrontation took away from the numbing effect on his leg, and it started to throb. He leaned heavily on his staff and soon he was limping. He made is a few more blocks before he could hardly walk at all. He leaned against a wall in a dank alley and slid to the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain.

            His whole life, Dorian had grown up with money and privilege; there was nearly nothing his position and wealth and power couldn’t acquire for him. And now he was about to keel over in a stinking alley, a nobody mage with a broken leg and a death wish. He couldn’t help but laugh.

            He was laughing even harder when, weeks later, he actually did make it to Kirkwall with no idea why he’d bothered to come here. All he could think was how fitting it was that the ass-end of the world was a complete shithole.


	15. The Hanged Man

_Chapter 15: The Hanged Man_

            “Apparently the pigeon population in Ferelden took a nosedive. Weird, eh? What sort of sick individual preys on innocent birds like that?”

            Dorian raised an eyebrow while staring dubiously at his stoneware mug of ale. “Someone who doesn’t like pigeons, evidently,” he said warily. He didn’t care about pigeons. He didn’t care about Ferelden.

            “Time was, only a few years ago, that people were always coming from Ferelden. Now it seems they’re always leaving _for_ Ferelden,” Corff, the bartender, said. He threw the damp and stained bar towel over one shoulder and leaned on the bar. “Which are you?”

            Dorian stared at Corff without a hint of amusement on his face. “Have I honestly gone through so much shit in my life that I can pass for a southerner now?” he asked. He’d traveled through Antiva to get to Kirkwall, and managed to avoid rogue templars. Mostly. Felix, the sneaky bastard, had slipped a pouch of coin into the bag of supplies he’d given Dorian, so he’d been able to outfit himself more appropriately. Being mistaken for a southerner darkened Dorian’s already bleak mood.

            First, it was absolutely true: Kirkwall was a shithole. The place stank of trash and rot and stale ocean water, and Dorian all but had to walk with a kerchief over his face to block out the worst of it. Second, most of the places he’d consider staying in Hightown had either been burned or looted, or charged exorbitant rates for accommodations even Tevinter slaves would scoff at. Finally, there was no decent wine in the entire city, and he wasn’t entirely sure the “ale” he was drinking was really ale at all.

            Dorian sighed. “Why would a Tevinter need to go to Ferelden?” he asked, when Corff kept staring at him. “Yes,” he added. “I am a Tevinter. As in from the Imperium.”

            Corff stared at him, slightly slack jawed. “Like, a Magister?”

            Dorian shook his head, not really caring enough to explain that a mage from Tevinter did not automatically equate to being a Magister. “Never mind. I’m just passing through Kirkwall.”

            “Then where to?”

            “Why does it even matter to you?” Dorian asked, irritated.

            “You don’t spend much time in taverns,” Corff said with a smirk.

            “I don’t make a habit of it, no.”

            “A lot of people pass through here. Lowtown seems to be the only part of Kirkwall that’s stayed standing, and the Hanged Man is the only tavern still pouring. When the ale flows, so does information.” Corff surveyed Dorian, but Dorian had long ago learned to keep his face blank and unreadable. Finally the bartender sighed. “You need to know anything, see me. Not very often we have ‘Vints come through here.”

            “When was the last time?” Dorian asked, genuinely curious. He couldn’t picture anyone from the Imperium willingly coming to this dung heap.

            “Bout three or four years ago. Just before the Chantry blew.” He chuckled. “Probably for the best the poor sod got killed, else he’d have been blamed for the Chantry explosion even with that apostate singing and dancing that he’d done it.”

            Dorian rolled his eyes and left a few coins and his half-finished ale on the counter. He went to the room he’d let, but the dust and dirt everywhere just depressed him. _What in the Void am I even doing here?_ he wondered. _Have I really sunk so low?_

            He decided to give himself a walking tour of the infamous Kirkwall, but he left his staff behind. Kirkwall was still Kirkwall, after all; and he was still a mage. It made him nervous. But he’d been able to protect himself with his magic without a staff since he was young. Over the years he’d come to depend on it, enjoying the way it focused his mana and targeted spells more accurately.

            It was still afternoon, but it felt dusky as the crowded and cramped buildings of Lowtown vied for space and drowned out the sunlight. It was nothing like the carefully constructed buildings of Minrathous or Qarinus. In fact the whole city felt like a garish mockery of the Imperium. It had once been one of the Imperium’s most vital ports, the heart of Tevinter slave trade, and now? Nothing.

            Dorian walked until he could go no further, as he was barred by the harbor. The water was dull gray and slick with scum and full of rotting seaweed and refuse. No wonder the Imperium had abandoned this port. It was truly hopeless. He stared out over the harbor to see the Twins, huge statues built on the rock piles that dotted the harbor between the Gallows and the open ocean. They covered their faces, ashamed and broken… not unlike the city itself.

            Disgusting. Dorian sneered at the statues, at the Gallows, at the whole city. This was what the Imperium had to look forward to if things continued the way they were going. He turned and kept walking. The thought of Minrathous in crumbled ruins, or Vyrantium burning and turning the clouds black with smoke was painful. As dark as Tevinter could be, and as much as Dorian had qualms with its practices of slavery and blood magic, it was home. It wasn’t beyond hope or redemption, not yet. Not so long as he drew breath.

            Curiosity got the better of him, and Dorian walked the dirty streets to the Hightown region of the city. Maybe five years ago it was cleaner, brighter, and more distinguished; but now there was little difference between this part of the city and Lowtown, or the docks. The homeless sat in doorways of abandoned houses, watching with wide hollow eyes as he passed, leaving him torn. He had coin; but how much would he need to get to the next place he was going?

            Where was the next place he was going?

            What would he need to get there, and what would he need _when_ he got there?

            Dorian kept walking and eventually emerged in a courtyard build of the same pale stone as the rest of the upper part of the city. These stones, however, were blackened and charred, stained even after nearly four years. Without the Chantry to block it out, the sun bore down on him, suddenly dazzling after the shadows of the other buildings.

            With all the chaos that had plagued the city over the last few years the explosion site had yet to be truly excavated and leveled. The rubble had been picked over by scavengers. The massive statue of Andraste had been scraped and hacked at by either robbers or pilgrims. Closer to the edge of the mess people had left candles lit; some were new and others had melted into puddles of appropriately blood red wax on the pavement.

            Dorian closed his eyes. The Veil was thin here in Kirkwall in general; the city’s history of blood magic, slavery and death had weakened the barrier between this world and the world of spirits. But here, on the site of the Chantry, if he looked close enough he could see right through to the Fade beyond. Spirits of death and darkness hovered on the edges of his vision and approached, but Dorian did not move. _Stop this,_ they whispered in his mind. _Death is natural; it need not be senseless. Do something_. _We help you; please help us._

            He surveyed the ruin and rubble. The man who’d done this, Anders, was perhaps not so different from Dorian. They were both desperate mages in a world that didn’t want them as they were. Except where Anders had turned to violent explosions to make people listen and had plunged Thedas into chaos, Dorian was constantly running. Felix was right. If they didn’t want the Imperium to go the way of Kirkwall, it would take a Tevinter to change it.

            Dorian knelt before the candles. Tiny flames sparked from his fingertips and he went down the line, relighting the dead wicks. “Those who had been slaves were now free,” he murmured, a snatch of prayer from one of the Dissonant Verses of the Chant. It was not taught in the Imperium as anything other than a whimsical tale, a droll idea when someone needed a laugh. No one in their right mind would truly suggest that Tevinters believe in freeing the slaves. But Dorian whispered it with each candle he lit and as he did the resolve in his heart grew. He would not be a slave to the old ways of Tevinter, based in fear and arrogance; the southern mages would not be slaves to a Chantry bent on subduing them out of fear and pride.

            “The slaves were now free,” he said aloud, extinguishing the flames on his fingertips with a wave of his hand. He stood and stared at the rubble and beyond, through the Veil and into the Fade and nodded to the spirits watching. Then he headed back to the Hanged Man.

            “Tell me why people are going to Ferelden,” Dorian said, sliding back into his seat at the bar. His ale mug was still there and Corff was sitting behind the bar, reading a book. There were only a few other patrons in the tavern, mostly hanging out in shadowed corners talking. Dorian spied a couple of people actually sleeping on the long wooden benches against one wall, or else resting heads on the rough tables. A few glasses of piss-poor ale were cheap in comparison to letting a room, and a bench was probably preferable to sleeping on a Kirkwall street corner.

            Corff closed his book, but kept his place with one finger. “You’re back?” he said, glancing between Dorian’s irritated face and the mug still on the bar. “Huh. I guess I got wrapped up in reading. The guy who wrote this? He used to live here,” he said proudly. “Wish I’d thought to get a copy autographed before he left.”

            Dorian looked around the tavern and recalled the dirty streets and hapless people of the city. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why he’d have left,” he said sardonically.

            “And I can’t imagine for the life of me why you’d be curious about Ferelden. I thought your kind said fuck it all to that place a long time ago,” Corff said.

            Dorian shrugged. “We did. Perhaps I’m just on some extended sight-seeing holiday all over the backest of the backwater reaches of Thedas,” he said. “So what is it? Ferelden refugees returning home at long last?” he asked. He dug into his purse and dropped a coin on the counter.

            “Maybe for some,” Corff said, eying the money. He set his book down and dragged his stool over closer to Dorian. Dorian waited but Corff didn’t offer any other information, so he sighed and pulled out another coin. “Your kind has been offered sanctuary there by King Alistair,” Corff said.

            Dorian laughed; a sleeping patron groaned and stirred. “My kind? As if Tevinters needed…” Corff kept staring at him and Dorian realized that he meant mages. “Ah, yes, I see what you mean,” Dorian said, absently stroking the end of his mustache. “And how would _my kind_ make it to Ferelden, if one had an inclination to go?”

            “Ship’s the fastest way,” Corff said, “though getting a ship might be difficult. Trade’s slow these days, though there are occasional merchant vessels.”

Dorian recalled his last time on a ship and wrinkled his nose. “I’d rather avoid the water if I could.”

Corff shrugged. “Suit yourself. The land route takes you into Orlais, close to Val Royeaux, and we all know what a fucked up mess that place is,” he said with a laugh. “Then you’d have to cross the Frostbacks.” His eyes swept over Dorian. “You probably wouldn’t last longer than half a day though, assuming you made it through Orlais.”

Dorian’s initial response was protest, but he thought of the snows and the harsh terrain and conceded to Corff with a nod. “Ship it is, I guess,” he said trying to sound bright. “Though if that’s to be the way, I’ll need to find an open apothecary.”

“Why?”

“I suffer terrible seasickness,” Dorian said, tossing two more coins to Corff, and leaving his still-half-finished ale still on the bar. He wondered if he would ever return to Kirkwall, and if he did, if the ale would still be there.

The only apothecary Dorian could find was sorely lacking in potions to help with his impending seasickness, and while the woman had some ingredients for sale, he’d never learned much in the way of herbalism and potion making. Primal magic and Necromancy had taken all his attention, and he’d always taken it for granted that there would be potions available when he wanted or needed them.

Apparently “learn potion making” was going on his list of resolutions.

He booked passage on a merchant vessel returning to Ferelden, paying extra so the captain would stop asking questions about who he was, or what his motives were for going so far south. “Last I checked it wasn’t a crime to travel to Ferelden,” Dorian snapped, counting coin into the man’s hand.

“It’s dangerous traveling with a mage aboard,” the man said with a shrug. “Especially an apostate. Though, I guess technically you’re all apostates now, with the Circles going to shit.”

Of all the things Dorian had been called, _apostate_ felt the most offensive. “I’m no apostate,” he snapped. “I’m an Altus mage from the Tevinter Imperium, where there’s no such thing as an apostate.”

The captain’s eyes widened. “You’re Tevinter?” he asked, and Dorian nodded. “In that case, it’s even more dangerous to have you on board.”

Dorian swore and just threw his coin pouch at the man as he boarded the ship.


	16. The Magician

_Chapter 16: The Magician_

 

            Maker’s shriveled testicles, but it was _cold_ here. Dorian didn’t know how anyone could manage to survive it, let alone _enjoy_ living in a place like this. When he’d managed to acquire a tent and bedroll, the merchant had outright laughed at him when he asked if it would be enough to keep him warm. “This _is_ warm,” the man said, clapping Dorian on the shoulder so hard his knees almost buckled. It was a good thing he was an excellent primal mage and could keep a fire going, regardless of how much kindling he had available. Still, it drained his mana quite a bit and he was pretty certain that lyrium was in high demand, short supply, and great suspicion for those who tried to get their hands on it.

            The ground was lumpy, the trees made him sneeze, and the air was dry and harsh. He had no clue what he was doing, either with the whole camping business or just being in Ferelden in general. They called this the Hinterlands, and not without good reason. Even Kirkwall had been more civilized than this, and that was saying something. Dorian was hungry and lost; all that was missing was an asshole templar, and he would have thought he was twenty again, just waiting to be hauled back to Tevinter.

            Dorian had never thought he would ever be out of his element, but ironically enough being a lone mage in the midst of a mage rebellion did it.

            He was here in the thick of things; he was completely out of his league and had no idea what to do next. How could this have possibly been a good idea? He did not belong here, nor did he belong in Tevinter. It was dismal to think of his prospects: the son of a powerful Magister living as a refugee in Ferelden of all places! The only consolation he could find was that his father would be shitting himself when he found out that Dorian preferred exile in the south to his privileged Tevinter life.

            It could have been far worse, though. Dorian actually found some things about Ferelden interesting. The Blight and its aftermath had thinned the Veil throughout the countryside. Dorian was alone, but never lonely so long as he could access the Fade and the spirits within. Often, in his youth, he’d found the spirits more enjoyable company than people were. And now that he was alone he found he was able to focus on the Fade much more calmly.

            Interestingly enough, now that he was far from Tevinter and had been for some time, the desire demons did not plague him in the same way. He still guarded himself and never walked the Fade unwarily, but his focus was much better. It was nice to know that, even though he’d been a magical prodigy, he still had things to learn.

            Dorian had survived in Ferelden a fortnight when things changed.

            He was sleeping as well as he could with rocks digging into his back when it felt like an explosion without light or sound had gone off in his head. He sat up, cold sweat trickling down his spine and his heart thumping. There was a roar in his ears and his mana undulated through his body and mind without any sense of control.

            It was scarier than his father bearing down upon him.

            Dorian had never had any issue with losing control. Even when he’d manifested his magic he’d been able to direct and control the mana without any conscious effort. It was like breathing, natural and easy.

            This must be what drowning was like, then.

            He took deep breaths and reached out to gather his power, imagining the mana tendrils winding into a ball that he could stuff down into the recesses of his mind. He closed his eyes and the Fade was there, a swirling vortex of green and purple and black. Each beat of his heart pulsed a new sensation: fear. Anger. Sorrow. Greed. Envy. Desire. Compassion. Hope. Despair. So many things he could not feel all at once.

            The Fade had gone mad.

            He found none of his usual comfort in the spirits of that realm. He built up his mental shields and conjured a small fire in his cupped palms to warm himself. Even that was difficult to control, and he nearly burned his tent down with him in it. He hadn’t had trouble controlling flames since he was… well, since ever. Primal magic was his primary school and he’d mastered it as a child.

            Something had gone terribly wrong.

            Dorian crawled out of his tent. He could hear screams and clashing metal not terribly far off. It was still night and still dark, but a glow to the northwest drew his attention. The sky was bright acid green above the Frostbacks. Clouds swirled in a vortex over the mountainside. Dorian had been all over Thedas by now, and had walked the paths of the Fade for most of his life and he’d never seen anything like this.

            The din around his tiny campsite grew louder: voices mingled with hysterical shrieks and the rumble of footsteps. Dorian stood and tried to look casual as the first of the crowd came into view. Many were mages; he could tell from the angry undulating currents of mana all around him as they drew closer. Most had never been trained to control their mana in a crisis; they simply hoped for the best. He was grateful for his Tevinter training. They seemed to be feeding off of each others’ panic, while Dorian was able to remain calm.

            “Excuse me,” he called pleasantly. No one looked at him. “Pardon me? The sky seems to be ready to swallow a mountain to the north, anyone know what happened?” he asked. He truly did not expect an answer at this point, and he could hardly suppress his irritation at the panic. He stared up at the green sky and blocked out the shrieking of the Fade in his mind.

            “The Maker is coming for us!” someone screamed, running past with tears streaming down her face.        

            “Andraste bless me, Andraste guide me. Bride of the Maker, look on me with favor,” another cried as he paused next to Dorian and stared up into the sky with frightened eyes. “Pray with me,” he suddenly said, grabbing Dorian by the arm.

            He was another mage, and his hands burned through Dorian’s sleeve. He was panicked and uncontrolled, and he was leeching off of Dorian’s mana as his own emotions burned his up.

            Dorian didn’t think, simply hit the man with a mind blast spell that knocked him backward. “I’ll thank you to unhand me,” he said, brushing off his sleeve. He pushed it up and looked at his arm. There was a faint mark where his hand had been, which was disconcerting. It reminded Dorian of the lyrium burns he’d received from the chains so long ago. The other man was writhing on the ground, clutching his head and crying for Andraste.

            Dorian had no idea what had happened, but he figured it would probably be a good idea to move his camp. He had no desire to wake up to more mad mages with their hands on him, sucking out his energy and leaving him defenseless.

            The green light illuminated the road as Dorian began to trek toward Redcliffe village, where the bulk of the rebel mages were gathering under Grand Enchanter Fiona. He had a strange feeling as he looked to the sky, feeling the pull of the Fade and the chaos just across the Veil, that this was what he’d been waiting for.

            It was a mystery, and Dorian had always loved a good intrigue, especially when magic was involved. You could take the man out of Tevinter, but you would never take the Tevinter out of the man. He didn’t know what it was, or how it had happened. He didn’t know yet what it meant for Ferelden or Orlais; or even for Tevinter, so far away. But it meant something.


End file.
